Heaven Forbid
by AlaskaMarina
Summary: Sequel to "Where My Demons Hide," "It's Dark Inside," and "REACH"
1. Chapter 1

_He's trapped, tied to a chair. A nameless, faceless woman is torturing him. Hurting him. Cutting him with his own blade. She's angry. Furious, actually. She blames him for a lot of bad things. Cas isn't entirely sure she doesn't have the right to._

 _But it hurts. The ropes aren't even that tight, but he can't break out of them no matter how hard he tries. And he does. He tries and tries but his extraordinary strength has deserted him when he needs it the most, leaving him helpless and utterly human._

 _She's asking him questions. She wants information as much as she wants to hurt him. It doesn't matter what the questions are. Cas doesn't have the answers. He is powerless to stop the pain._

 _She yells at him, berates him, moves in to cut him once more._

 _Suddenly, the door flies open and two men burst into the room, weapons drawn. One is Dean. The other Cas shouldn't recognize, but he somehow knows it's Sam Winchester. Fully grown and still alive._

 _"Cas!" Dean cries upon seeing the state of him._

 _There's_ concern _in his voice. A panic and familiarity in his eyes that has no business being there._

 _And it hurts. Seeing that._

 _The woman turns back to him, away from the men at the door._

 _Wordlessly, she pulls the blade back and plunges it into his heart._

 _"NO!"_

Cas startles awake.

Swallowing hard, he takes a moment to release his sheets from their death-grip and wipe the wetness from his face.

He rolls on his side and stares at the red glowing numbers on his clock, breathing carefully through his nose.

3:24 am

He closes his eyes, forces himself to calm down.

His dreams have had this recurring theme lately: helplessness. Cas attributes it to the stabbing two years ago. After losing massive amounts of blood, they'd given him a transfusion. And Castiel supposes whatever it is inside him that grants him his extraordinary strength resides in his blood, because it had disappeared after that.

For almost three months.

Cas wasn't able to reconcile well with that new feeling of vulnerability, of having his secret weapon, his security blanket, taken away from him so unexpectedly. Anyone who noticed how...off he was just assumed the trauma was responsible. Which, in a way, he supposes it is. But even after his strength returned, slowly but surely, the dreams have persisted. And so has that feeling of being shaken to the core, of having everything in his life he believed to be true yanked out from under him.

Though, he can hardly blame all of that on the transfusion.

While losing his strength had certainly been traumatic, losing Dean, and losing at least part of his faith in the system he'd devoted his life to, was even more so. Every time he runs into Dean Winchester, it seems, he finds out something he never wanted to know. He never wanted to know, for example, that Peter Sheridan, a cop, was the one behind all of those murders twenty years ago. He never wanted to know that esteemed FBI agent, Victor Henricksen, had had a wanted criminal seduced and drugged rather than play by the rules. Castiel never wanted to know how much he, himself, actually seemed to care about the beautiful man with the dark intentions. And he never wanted to know what it felt like to be completely powerless.

But now he knows all those things. And he'll never be the same for it ever again.

Cas raises a careful hand and runs it slowly over the scar on his stomach where the blade had entered. It's a bad habit he's gotten into whenever he feels disquieted by such feelings. A reminder of what he's been through and everything that he'd almost lost.

And of what he's survived.

Dean had marked him in more ways than one that day. Leaving him with a scar on his body and a much deeper wound in his heart when he'd realized just how far the young man had fallen and what he was willing to sacrifice to stay that way. Dean had fought tooth and nail against the idea that anyone was capable of caring for him in any way. And it broke Cas's heart to see it.

His feelings only grew more mixed a few weeks later when Dean had called him to...check on him? Tease him? Apologize? It was never really clear, but it had left Cas with a million questions spiraling around his mind, making him dizzy, making him wonder.

Making him wonder _why_. _Why_ had Dean left him alive? When it would have been so so easy to kill him then and there. Was it really only because he'd wanted Hannah to think she had the chance to stop and save him rather than going after Dean? Or did it run deeper than that? Did it have to do with the way Dean seemed to value his presence? Was it some remnant of the affection Dean had appeared to regard him with as a child? Or was it simply because he _could_. Maybe Dean was only playing a game with him. Maybe he liked the idea of Cas being out there, tortured by his failures, endlessly chasing his tail in futile attempts to bring Dean in or to make him see the light.

Maybe Dean was just laughing at him.

That certainly seemed the most plausible option. But, at the same time, it didn't feel right. Didn't seem to fit with the rest of what Dean had said and done.

But this is Dean Winchester he is talking about. So who the hell knows?

And _that_ , more than anything else, is what keeps Castiel up at night.

The next day, Cas arrives at the office to the usual hustle and bustle. Before he can even reach his desk, however, Hannah comes running up to him with a file.

"Good morning," he says.

"Three more dead," she answers, shoving the file into his arms, "All beheaded, just like the last ones."

Castiel sighs, taking the file and continuing to his chair.

"It's pretty nasty," she warns as he opens the file up to the grisly photos.

"Burn marks?" He inquires. The last nine victims have had circular burn marks around their eyes and on their chests. This makes twelve killings in six months. Either the drug war is heating up or they have a very, very determined serial killer on their hands. At first, because of the beheadings, Cas and others thought for a moment it might be Dean. But all of the bodies were left intact and out in the open. Not the Grim Reaper's style. Plus, most recent intelligence has recorded sightings of Dean Winchester on the other side of the country.

No. This is something new.

Cas stares at the photos. The burns are there. Arranged across the vics' chests in an almost ritualistic pattern.

"Yup," Hannah says, "I tell you boss, seems like some serious overkill, don't you think? Someone is seriously pissed."

"Or seriously desperate," Cas muses, "People torture for information." _Or for fun_ , a part of him thinks, but he pushes that thought aside, not ready to go there just yet.

"I still stay it's connected to Tiger Lily somehow."

"Probably," Cas agrees without looking up.

If Cas is completely honest with himself, it doesn't make much difference to him. He's been burying himself in his work over the past two years, but his heart isn't really in it anymore. It hasn't been into much of anything for a long time.

"Triple homicide," Cas mutters, almost to himself, "They're getting bolder."

"Or just lucky."

Cas finally looks up at her, "What do you mean?"

"Well assuming the victims aren't random..." she says, which is something they still haven't been able to prove.

"Then three intended vics might have been in the same place at the same time," he finishes for her.

"Right."

It's a long shot. The killer could just as easily have been there to take out one of the victims and killed the other two to eliminate witnesses. Still, it's an angle to work. And none of their previous leads have taken them anywhere useful so far.

"Where?" He asks.

"South Dakota."

Cas's hand freezes on his keyboard.

"Where exactly?"

"Sioux Falls."

Cas opens a desk drawer and pulls out a newspaper from a few days ago. The one with a certain serial killer's picture on page six. The one stating the Grim Reaper had struck again, in Sioux City, Iowa. Less than two hours away from the most recent beheadings.

"What was the time of death? " He inquires.

"They think it was sometime last week," she answers, staring over his shoulder. "Coroner's report hasn't come back yet, but..." she trails off when she makes sense of what she's seeing. "You don't think?"

"No," says Cas, quickly shutting the paper away safely inside his desk, "Of course not. Not his MO."

"Boss," she ventures carefully,

"It's not him."

"We can't know that."

"The last three are a _family_ , Hannah," he insists, "This monster killed a _child_."

It's true. The unwholesome pictures on his desk depict three family members: a mother, a father, and young boy no older than six. Dean is a lot of things but he would neverhurt a child. Never.

Hannah bites her lip, but doesn't say anything else.

Cas is grateful. He's not sure how he would explain why he believes Dean wouldn't hurt kids, except to point out that the man never has. But for Cas it runs deeper than only that fact. It's something he just _knows_.

"Anyway," he says, "This guy's brazen. The Reaper hides his kills."

"True," she admits, "So are we going?"

"Yeah," says Cas, "Let's go."

The flight takes just over three hours. Cas spends the trip spinning all sorts of thoughts around in his mind. He can't believe Dean is responsible for killing a child, but it can't be a coincidence that the man was just hours away from the last murder sight right around the time it was happening. Can it? Cas supposes it's possible. But the tingling in his skull disagrees. There's a connection here. He just prays it's not what it looks like.

When they arrive, the last of the local forensics teams are just clearing out. They flash their badges and step under the yellow tape into the humble country home.

The first thing Cas notices is the blood. Or, rather, the lack thereof. Whoever had done this was an especially neat monster. The three bodies are stretched out under sheets with the expected red stains. But there is little to no blood anywhere else. Up until that point, Cas would have guessed there was no such thing as a tidy beheading, but hell if someone hadn't managed to pull it off, so to speak.

A quick peak under one of sheets reveals that the head has been carefully replaced adjacent to the remains of the neck. Almost like an apology for so rudely removing it. Cas shudders at his own dark thought, half-wondering where it came from.

"Boss," comes Hannah's voice from the other end of the room.

He crosses over to the body she's standing near. It's the woman, the mother. He looks down and sees a thin, pretty, forty-something with short brown hair and fair features. There's something else about her, too, though. Something almost...

"She look familiar to you boss?" Hannah asks.

She does. In truth, he'd barely glanced at the pictures, having seen the same gruesome carnage over and over again this past half year and not being especially eager to linger on them any longer than necessary. But now, seeing her up close, he can feel the sickness rising in his stomach.

"She's the sheriff, isn't she?" He rasps.

"I think so. I heard some of the others talking." The hushed voices and wary looks they've been getting since they arrived suddenly make a lot more sense.

It's been almost ten years, but yes, looking at her now, her countenance is unmistakable.

"What was her name?" Hannah asks.

"Jody," says Cas, the name coming to him in a sudden awful rush of memories.

"Mills. That's right."

Cas swallows around the lump in his throat with some difficulty. He stares at her lifeless face, so peaceful in death, and the memories come crashing over him like a river through a busted dam.

 _"...Get off my property before I make that shell of yours a permanent part of it." The shotgun cocks in the older man's hands and Cas's eyes widen comically._

 _"I'm with the FBI."_

 _"I don't care who the hell you are. Unless you've got a warrant-" He raises the gun to his eye.  
_

 _"My name is Castiel Novak. We spoke on the phone."_

 _The man pauses, frowns, lowers the weapon._

 _"Novak? From Chicago?"_

 _Cas could have sighed with relief, "Yes."_

 _Singer lets the gun fall to his side._

 _"The hell, fed? I could have killed you. What in the blazes are you doing here?"_

 _"I need your help. John and the boys disappeared again. I'm chasing down every lead I can think of."_

 _"A simple phone call might have sufficed."_

 _"You saying you wouldn't have hung up on me?"_

 _Singer bites his lip thoughtfully, "You're smarter than you look, fed."_

 _"I need information."_

 _"I already told you-"_

 _"You didn't tell me those little boys were cold-blooded killers," says Cas icily._

 _Singer opens his mouth to reply, when there's a loud crash from the back of the house._

 _"Excuse me, fed." The older man says before slamming the door in his face._

 _Cas stands there, startled into motionlessness. He hears shouting from inside the house. Singer and another man._

 _He can't make out most of it, but he thinks he picks up on the words "body," and "still alive." There's another crash. More shouting._

 _"Excuse me," says a voice from behind him._

 _Cas turns and sees a young woman in a Sheriff's uniform standing on the bottom step. Her police car sits parked a little ways back._

 _"I received a noise complaint for this residence. Is Bobby around?"_

"Jody," Cas mouths silently, the emotions threatening to overwhelm him.

"How did she get caught up in all this?" Hannah wonders aloud.

"In all of what?" Cas asks, shaking himself back to reality, "We don't even know what's going on here." He can't quite keep the anger out of his voice. This is ridiculous. Twelve bodies and no solid leads, and _now_... Now, because of their incompetence, Sheriff Mills, a loyal public servant, a mother, a _friend,_ is dead. And so is her family.

Cas doesn't know who this monster is or what they want.

But it doesn't matter.

Things just got personal.

* * *

 _3 Days Earlier_

Dean lands hard on his back, knocking his head against the hardwood floor. His vision swims for a moment, but he can make out the dark shape hovering over him. Dean doesn't hesitate. He sweeps a leg and brings the monster down on top of him, rolling as he does. He scrambles to kneel on the monster's chest and brings the knife down. Once. Twice. Three times. Four times.

Over and over he stabs the man in the neck, the face, the chest, screaming and grunting and swearing as he does. His rage is enough to produce red blotches in the sides of his vision. All he can see is blood and flames and anger. So much anger and hatred in that moment. No room for anything else. No room for any thought besides _kill, kill, kill._

Finally, after what feels like hours, when there's nearly nothing left to stab, Dean begins to come back to himself, the exhaustion creeping in. He feels the blade slide from his sweaty, bloody hand and clatter to the ground.

He slumps back on his haunches, sitting on the creature's stomach, on the thing that scarcely deserved to be called a person even when it was alive.

And cries.

The tears mix with the blood splattered across his face and run into his mouth. He can taste the salty-metallic flavor and spits it out onto the monster for good measure.

He gasps and closes his eyes, pushes himself off of the body and collapses on the ground beside it, breathing heavily.

 _It's over_ , he tells himself, _it's over, it's over._

But it's not over. It will never be over. Not until he stops it. Not until he gets to _him_.

And he _will_ get to him. He _will_ find him. If it's the last thing he ever does.

Later, when he's burning the body, all the tears have vanished. That part of him is empty, drained. All that's left is cold, calculating hate. A focus and a drive that would terrify an Olympic champion. He knows where the bastard is going next and he _will_ beat him there. This will _not_ happen again.

He has one last thing to he has to do though, before he moves on.

Dean makes his way to her house. It's a place he knows well. Too well.

The carnage inside is enough to make even him feel a little sick. Blood everywhere, heads and bodies dumped unceremoniously on the floor. Jody and her family don't deserve to be found like this. And Dean can't have the authorities getting to this monster before he does. That maniac is his kill.

Dean gets to work cleaning the scene. Carefully scrubbing the blood from all surfaces. And gently, oh so gently, replacing the severed heads of the victims with their respective bodies, closing their eyes. That part makes him a bit nauseous, but it's the least they deserve. After all, this is his fault.

"I'm so sorry," he whispers to the Sheriff's lifeless form. "I'll get this bastard, Jody. I promise you."

And with that he exits the small country home, leaving his last traces of mercy behind him.

The next day Dean finds himself in Blue Earth, Minnesota. Ages ago Dean and his father stopped a psychotic woman from basically brainwashing and subsequently wiping out the whole town. The monster could be planning a massacre... or maybe just... maybe just the Pastor. Strangely, that seems more his style. To hit Dean where it hurts the most. In the way he would feel most responsible for the death. Sicko.

Dean pulls up his hoodie and slowly exits his car, where he's hidden in it a back alley behind the church. He's had to be a lot more careful these days. After the events two years ago, the public has become much more hyper aware of his activities. His face is still featured in the news sometimes, more and more so lately with the trail of bodies he's been leaving chasing after the big boss monster. It's only a matter of time before someone realizes he's revisiting the sights of past kills and then... then he is royally screwed. But until then...

Dean loiters around the side of the chapel until the service lets out. He sneaks through the exiting crowd without drawing too much attention and slips inside the doors. He waits until the last of the parishioners clear out before making his way the pulpit where the Pastor is tidying up.

He looks older. Of course he does. It's been, what? Fifteen years? Dean's a little surprised he's still working. But then again, not so much. In all his years he's yet to meet a more loyal servant of Heaven.

"Pastor Gideon?" He says casually.

The Pastor glances up from his work, "Yes? Can I help you?"

"I hope so." Dean pushes back his hood and the Pastor's eyes widen.

"You..." he breathes, "What are you doing here?"

"Relax," says Dean, "I'm not here to hurt you. I'm here to help you."

"Help me? The way you 'helped' last time?"

Last time. Dean sighs. Last time the crazy whore who'd been turning the townspeople against one another was Leah Gideon, Pastor Gideon's daughter. Even though John had managed to convince the Pastor that his daughter had had a psychotic break and was more or less dead already, it was still painful for the man to give Dean's dad the go ahead to put her down. They had no choice, really. Leah seemed perfectly sane from the outside and left no direct connection to the murders she instigated. That was where John and Dean were meant to come in. When all other forces failed.

It must be particularly painful for the Pastor to see Dean again, as the then eleven year old boy had wound up being the one to actually pull the trigger.

"Nothing like that," Dean reassures him, "No one you know is going to get hurt. You have my word."

The Pastor scoffs. "Yeah," he says, "I can take that right to the bank."

"Hey," says Dean, "I'm trying to help you. You're in danger."

"Of course I am," he replies, "You're here, aren't you?"

Dean tries not to let it show how much that stings. Not to let on how close to home the man has unwittingly hit.

"There's someone coming for you. I don't know who or how many. But they'll be here soon. The next few days at most."

"Why should I believe you?"

"Why would I lie? Why the hell else would I come back here?"

"So, I'll call the police."

"And tell them what? A crazed serial killer told you another crazed serial killer is coming after you with no proof whatsoever? The police are useless."

"So what do you suggest?"

"I have a plan."

Gideon rolls his eyes up to the high ceiling.

"Great."

The man goes along with it, of course. What choice does he have really? Dean is grateful for his compliance. He's used to people not thanking him when he saves them, but when you get right down to it, he's found that people will always choose life, no matter who they have to trust to get it. And the Pastor is no exception.

Dean tails Gideon for the next three days. Careful to stay out of sight but to always keep the Pastor in his. He doesn't sleep. He encourages Gideon to stay in public as much as possible. He camps out in his car outside the Pastor's house at night.

And he waits.

On the third day, Dean's sitting in his car outside a coffee shop, waiting for Gideon to come out when there's a loud rap on his window. Dean startles out of his reverie and looks up. He rolls the window down.

"Why are you following me?" The pretty young woman demands.

"Following you?"

"You think I don't know when I'm being followed? This is third time I've seen you today. Just sitting in your car like some stalker freak, staring at me."

Dean is a little thrown. She stands there, hands on her hips, clearly expecting an answer.

"So... instead of running or getting help, you decide to come up and confront this potentially dangerous psycho by yourself?"

The woman huffs and rolls her eyes, "It's broad daylight, jackass."

"It is now. But I if I really was who you think I am, what makes you think I wouldn't follow you home?"

"Because if I see you again, I'll mace ya. And then call the police. Got it?"

Dean has to fight not to burst out laughing. If she had any idea...

"Okay," he says, "No more following. Got it."

"Damn straight," she says, turning on her heel and stalking away.

Dean watches her go, most specifically watches a certain _part_ of her walk away and raises an intrigued brow. Maybe when all this is over he really may track her down and follow her somewhere... much more discretely of course. He's got to be more careful. He lucked out this time in that this particular woman hadn't recognized him. Next time he might not be so fortunate.

He turns his attention back to the coffee shop and finds to his horror that Gideon is gone.

" _Shit_ ," he hisses. _Focus_ , he thinks angrily, _You and motherfucking focus!_

He starts the car and drives off, cursing himself the whole way.

By nightfall he still hasn't found the man, and he isn't answering any of Dean's calls or texts. Dean tries calling one more time.

Someone picks up.

"Gideon," he snaps, "Where the hell are you? I've been looking all-."

"Hello, Deano," says a oddly familiar voice. He recognizes it for sure. But he can't place it for the life of him.

"I think we've got a few things to discuss, wouldn't you agree? Seems I've got something you want. And you've got something I want. Makes for a solid trade, don't you think?"

"Who the fuck is this?"

"Nobody to worry your pretty little noggin about, I promise. What you should be asking is what I want from you."

Dean grips the steering wheel.

"You know," the voice drawls, "You really oughtta keep better track of your stuff. You take your eye off something one minute, any old psycho can just wander up and take it."

Dean suddenly remembers where's he's heard the voice before and wants to smack himself for not placing it sooner.

" _You_."

The woman laughs. "Little ol' me."

"You-"

"You men," the woman intones, "Always thinking with your dick. The lost riches of Atlantis could be sitting in front of you and you wouldn't notice if a nice piece of ass strolled on by."

"You flatter yourself. Like, majorly."

"It worked, didn't it? I got what I wanted, or rather, I got what _you_ wanted. And that's way more fun anyway."

Dean grits his teeth and tries to keep his breathing level.

"What do you want?"

"What we've always wanted, Deano. For you to back the fuck off."

"Not gunna happen."

The woman sighs dramatically, "I was afraid you'd be like this. Looks like you're in for a little demonstration. I know this is radio, but his screams of pain should still get the message across nicely, I think."

There's a noise Dean knows very well on the other end of the line; the fizzling sound of metal burning flesh. He hears Gideon cry out.

"Oh, I'm sorry," the voice tells the Pastor sweetly, "Did that hurt? It's not my fault, you see. Your pal Deano is being very uncooperative."

The sizzling sound again. Another moan.

Dean can't take it anymore.

"Alright!" He says, "Enough."

"Oh, I don't think so. I think we can dig the point in a little deeper." She draws out the word "little" and Dean can imagine her pressing the brand deep into the Pastor's skin. Yes, definitely a second degree burn if the sounds he's making are any indication.

"I said stop!" Dean practically shouts.

"Whatever you say," the woman relents. He can still hear the Pastor groaning in the background, "Provided you give me what I want, of course. My father is growing tired of your going around, poking our boys and setting them on fire. It irks him just a dollop. And me too, quite honestly. We understand your vengence is very important to you, but this is business, see? We need you to put your personal feelings aside and see things our way."

"Just let the man go. If it's me you want, come find me."

"All in good time, Deano."

"Let him go," Dean growls, "Or I swear to you. I will track you down and chop off _your_ head."

"Oh, I'd love to see you try, sweetheart."

"Yeah? Well, that makes two of us."

"Just relax, Deano," she says. The woman rattles off an address, "You'll find your Pastor there. A little worse for the wear, but very much alive."

"Am I supposed to thank you?"

Suddenly the sweetness vanishes, and the woman's voice turns cold and dark. "I meant what I said before, Dean. Stand down," she warns, "Or we'll go after someone you really care about."

The bitch hangs up.

Dean's thoughts flash down the short list and he feels his throat close up.

 _No_.

There are very, very few people left in this world that Dean Winchester actually gives a damn about. And he will _not_ be responsible for the death of another one. Never, never again.

He's going to find this bitch and her father and whoever else he has to.

He's going to track them down and chop off the head of this beast once and for all.

And then he's going to burn their whole organization to the ground.

He's going to need some help.


	2. Chapter 2

His first and only lead is the bitch.

Now that he's complied with their demands, in theory, their killing spree of taking out the victims he previously saved should end. And while that's certainly a win, it does mean he has no way left to track them.

So he's left with the crazy psycho bitch. He knows what she looks like and he knows she's brazen so she should be easier to lure out than her ghost-like father.

But he still can't do it alone. He needs someone who can track a person who is little more than smoke in the wind. Only one name comes to mind.

Well, a few actually. But only one that's still breathing.

Frank Dvereaux.

An old contact of Bobby's and paranoia personified, the man has managed to keep himself alive by staying as far off of the grid as is humanly possible while simultaneously tracking everyone on it. If the aliens ever visited Earth, he would be the first to know about it. Of, course he'd also be the first to claim that even if they _didn't_ , but that's another issue altogether.

Dvereaux's trust in him would leave space in a matchbox, but like most folks who are in the life, he deals in favors. And there is little Dean won't be willing to do to bring this bitch and her whole family to their knees.

Frank's last known location is a day's drive away. And odds are he's long since moved on. But, if Dean's lucky, he'll have left clues there that those in know will be able to decipher and which will lead him to the man's new hideaway.

Three days after the Blue Earth incident, Dean finally tracks down Dvereaux's trailer in the backwoods of Illinois. Soon there's an angry old man at the door and a shotgun in his face.

"Whoa! Hey, Frank. It's okay. It's me."

Frank looks at him like he's crazy

"Oh, right. It's you. I'm sure that makes everything all fine and dandy, cupcake."

"What are you talking about?"

"Are you blind and deaf and stupid? Do you have any idea what's been going on out there? In case you haven't noticed, you've been painting big fat targets wherever you go."

Of course Dvereaux would have picked up on that. Hell, he probably figured out the pattern even before Dean did.

"Yeah, I've noticed. That's why I need your help."

"My _help_? Do I look suicidal to you?"

"Hey!" Dean shouts, "People are dying, Frank."

"Exactly why I'm going to get as far away from you as possible. Starting, oh... right before you showed up."

He moves to slam the door in his face. Dean puts out a hand to stop him.

"Are you really willing to stand by and watch innocent people die when you could have stopped it?"

"Well, look who's suddenly grown a conscience."

"This is on me, Frank. These people are my responsibility."

"Well, boo hoo for you. Looks like your dark knight lifestyle's finally come around to bite you in the ass."

Dean has to force himself to stay calm. His friends, if you can call them that, are not huge fans of his chosen career path. They understand it, most of them accept it, there are a few who even support it. But mostly Dean draws only disgust and bare toleration from the people he considers allies, and Frank is more than disgusted by his presence. He's _scared_ of it.

"Help me," he pleads, "Help me and I'll do whatever you want."

"What I _want_ is for you to forget you ever knew me."

"Done."

Frank glares at him.

There's a terrifying moment when Dean thinks Dvereaux will shut the door on him again and that'll be that. But then, with obvious reluctance, the man relents.

"Fine. Get in here," he all but growls, "Before somebody sees you."

Dean sighs with relief and hurries inside the dingy trailer.

It doesn't take Frank long to work his magic. He finds and hacks an ATM camera on the same street as the coffee shop and before long they've got a picture of the woman to run through all sorts of data bases. Almost immediately, they have a name.

Meg Masters. Twenty two. Orphaned at a young age. Licenced to drive in the state of Massachusetts.

But after that the well dries up quick. No credit cards, no properties, no phone in her name. Location unknown.

But still, it's something. The monster has no name. But Masters. She has an identity. She can be tracked.

Frank promises to do so, to keep an electronic, paranoid eye out and let Dean know if, _when_ , she pops up again as Dean is confident she will. And then, then Dean'll find a way to use her and trace her back to her father.

 _Father._ The word had given Dean pause at first until he remembered Yellow Eyes has a large cult following. It really wouldn't surprise him if all his disciples referred to him that way. It's the perfect level of creepy.

Dean recalls his first real encounter with the cult and fancies he can feel a phantom pain in his shoulder flare up once more. His fingers twitch as the imaginary burn brings along a very real flash of sickness and anger. This bastard will not escape him. Not this time. Never again.

 _Dean has a complex relationship with fire. In many ways he was born of it, his innocence the raw ore forged into deadly drive and steely hardness in its scorching depths. Indeed, it's quite literally shaped his entire existence save a few scant years._

 _But at the same time it's been the death of him. Of who he might have been, who he_ should _have been. It took his life from him, twisted it up and recast it into something new and terrifying and utterly unrecognizable._

 _And now it's taking the final piece of his childhood, the last traces of goodness and innocence from his wreck of life, and coughing it up as so much ephemeral smoke._

 _Dean's screams of agony have subsided but his tears are far from spent as he stares into the wicked heat and the dark shapes slowly dissolving within._

Sammy.

 _The single word brings on a fresh stream of tears, tightening the knot in his gut that manifested at the sight of blood dripping from his brother's lips and that he knows won't ever really go away._

 _He wants to scream. He wants to drop to the dirt and claw his way to hell, bury himself in the ashes and soil and pain and never come out._

 _But he can't._

 _He can't do that. Not with his father standing beside him._

 _The shame that would accompany such a display of weakness from him is enough stop these childish urges in their tracks._

 _This is not the time for melodramatics, his father would say. He knows that. That's been ingrained into his brain from day one, beaten mercilessly into him whenever he was stupid enough to forget. This is a time for action. For hunting down the monster that did this and spilling, gushing its blood all over this rotten planet of theirs. That is how a Winchester deals with grief. It's what they've always done. This is a time for vengeance._

 _And Dean will have it. He will have it if it takes every last breath from him because this knot in his gut and this hole in heart will never be silent until he does._

 _But, in spite of all of that, one tiny but persistently vocal part of his soul continues to scream. Continues to cry and beat the earth._

 _The part of him that is just a little boy who lost his brother._

 _The part that would do anything in this world or the next to bring Sammy back._

It's another month spent wandering around Illinois and the surrounding states before the call comes in. Dean's in the midst of tracking a potential victim: a loan shark with a fondness for tattoos who goes around promising people their greatest dreams, collecting their personal information, and then killing them in their sleep.

He lets it go to voicemail, wanting to avoid another lapse in focus like the last time. Later, alone in his motel room, Dean sees the call came from a blocked ID. Only one person has this particular number, however.

The message is full of static and at first Dean isn't sure what he's listening to. After a moment, though, Frank's voice breaks through the haze.

" _...Winchester... found me... fuck you...Yellow E-...Wyomin-"_

His words are cut off abruptly by a beep and that obnoxious electronic voice telling him he has no more messages.

Dean hightails it to Dvereaux's trailer, but arrives to find it ransacked. Computers smashed, clothes and cookware tossed haphazardly on the ground. Frank is nowhere in sight. There's no blood that Dean can see, but that still doesn't do much for his confidence.

" _Fuck!"_ Dean shouts, slamming his fist down on the remains of a hard drive. _Why_ does this keep happening? _How_ could they possibly have known?

The truth dawns on him later, when he's back in the car, driving angrily down the dark highway, that Yellow Eyes must have a tech genius of his own. Someone savvy enough to backtrace Dvereaux's hacks. Someone really, really good.

But who?

It doesn't matter, Dean tells himself. When he tracks down Yellow Eyes and his cult, and he _will_ find a way to track them, he'll kill them all. Geniuses and non-geniuses alike. He'll make them all pay for what they've done. And he'll do it alone.

No one else will get hurt because of him.

At least, no one who doesn't deserve it.

Frank was able to give him one clue before he was taken.

 _Wyoming_.

Frank quite possibly died to deliver that information and Dean will not let it go to waste. He presses down further on the gas pedal, accelerating down the empty street.

As he drives, it starts as a tingle in his left shoulder. Nothing so much as an itch really, so insignificant he hardly pays it any mind.

But the further he drives, the closer he gets, the more it grows until it's outrightg flaming across his skin.

Dean is forced to pull over, ripping his shirt sleeve away to reveal the hand-shaped scar, burning so hot and red it's practically glowing in the dim morning light. He pokes at it experimentally and winces when the heat flares up at his touch.

He scrambles out of the car, feeling cramped and feverish. The cool morning air helps some, but not much.

"What the f-"

His phone rings.

Dean, grateful for any distraction from the pain, answers it without thinking.

"What?" He snaps.

"Dean," a female voice breathes.

For a second, Dean's afraid it might be Meg with another victim wrapped up, but it's not. It's someone arguably even worse.

"Bela?" Dean asks, brow crumpling in confusion, "The fuck do you want?"

The heat on his arm flares again and Dean cringes.

"Dean," she says again, "Dean, I'm so sorry. I really am."

Dean feels something heavy drop into the pit of his stomach. Bela apologizing? She must have done something truly horrific. Even for her.

"I didn't want to tell them, I tried not to, but...they had guns and well, I'm a survivor."

"Tell them what? Tell who? The fuck are you talking about?"

His shoulder burns.

"Some guys tracked me down. Starting asking questions. About you. Specifically if you had any weaknesses."

The thing in Dean's stomach grows heavier, like lead. Bela knows things about him no one else does anymore. She's annoying like that. But who tracked her down? And why? Could it be...?

"Who were they?"

"I don't know. Dean, honestly I don't but...they wouldn't let me go. I had to give them something. I figured if I warned you, you'd be able to stop them before they did any damage so... you're welcome." The slight shake in her otherwise cavalier tone gives away her anxiety, her guilt. She should be anxious. Dean's probably going to kill her for whatever she did, warning or no warning.

"Warn me about what?"

"I told them about your little boyfriend."

For a moment, Dean is baffled. "My what?"

"The hot fed."

The thing in Dean's stomach drops out completely. He feels like all the air's been punched from his lungs. Bela keeps talking but Dean's not listening. He stares straight ahead, unseeing. The burning on his shoulder grows worse.

"I'm sorry, Dean but... you don't really _have_ any weaknesses. You're all stoic like that, and I remembered you sort of had a thing for him..." She goes on but Dean hangs up without even bothering to threaten her.

He suddenly realizes what the burning in his shoulder means.

Dean leaps into the car and redlines it back the way he came.

And god help any cop or brainwashed cult member who gets in his way.

* * *

 _One Month Earlier_

The longer they stay at the crime scene, the more apparent the scent of bleach becomes and the more Cas realizes there really is no such thing as a tidy beheading. There had been blood here. A lot of it. But someone had gone to mighty great lengths to get rid of every last trace. The forensics team confirms his suspicions that the heads, too, had been relocated from where they'd fallen and returned to their owners after the fact.

On the flight home, Cas's mind churns with this new information. What kind of monster are they dealing with here? Who cleans up a crime scene but leaves the bodies? Without leaving so much as a red herring behind them? It doesn't make sense. Unless somebody just really, really doesn't like blood. A sort of anal-compulsive serial killer.

But no, that didn't fit. None of the other scenes had been scrubbed clean in that way. This is something unique to the Mills. Or to that location or to this date or to _something_. Something is different this time. And that difference just might hold the key to solving this ever more gruesome puzzle for good.

Five days later they strike gold.

A man turns up in Blue Earth Minnesota, nearly tortured to death...through a form of _branding_. Circular burns all across his chest and over one of his eyes. The curious thing is, while the hospital had informed the police about the suspicious markings, the man was strangely unwilling to talk about them. Insisting it had been a cooking accident.

The director has Castiel and Hannah on the very next flight.

The arrive at the hospital, flash their badges, and make their way to the preacher's room. He's awake, flicking through the TV channels, muttering to himself. A bible and a rosary sit on his bedside table, untouched.

"Father?"

The man turns to look at Cas and raises his one remaining eyebrow, the one not covered in bandages.

"Thanks but you honestly don't need to call me that anymore. I'm seriously considering retirement in light of... things."

Castiel nods in understanding.

"It must have been pretty traumatic... cooking."

The pastor narrows his good eye. "And who," he speaks carefully, "may I ask are you?"

Cas and Hannah show him their badges and give their introductions. Gideon rolls his eye up at the ceiling.

"Feds," he mutters, shaking his head, "Just when I thought it couldn't get any better."

"We won't take too much of your time," Cas says.

"Great."

Cas persists in spite of the man's sarcasm. "You see, these _markings_ ," he says, gesturing at the man's body, "They're eerily similar to those we've been finding on a string of murder victims."

"I saw," says Gideon without missing a beat. Despite the Bureau's best efforts at keeping the "Smiter" killings underwraps, the press have still managed to get a hold of a few details, broadcasting them nationwide. "I don't know what to tell you," he continues, "I was cooking. I spilled some oil. It's not my fault it wound up looking all Lord of the Rings."

Castiel frowns at the reference. He's only known Gideon a few moments but it doesn't sound like something a pastor would say, in fact it almost sounds like... the agent shakes the thought away. But the tell-tale tingle flares up all the same.

"Sir," Hannah starts, "If someone's threatened you-"

"No one's threatening me. No one else has anything to do with it. I was by myself. I was cooking."

The pastor is a little too adamant for Cas's liking. The tingling spikes.

"What were you cooking?"

"What?"

Cas pokes at Gideon's story, "I asked what you were cooking. It must have involved a lot of oil for you to have burned yourself as badly as you did."

"Popcorn," he answers dryly.

Cas and Hannah exchange a glance.

Clearly the man is hiding something. But, more importantly, he doesn't seem all that concerned with whether the agents believe him or not. If Cas didn't know any better, he'd even say the man was hoping to get caught. Like he didn't fully believe in whatever cause was forcing him to keep his mouth shut.

"You understand hindering a federal investigation is crime, right?" Hannah asks, stepping forward, "If you know something that could help solve these other murders... or prevent future ones, you owe it to the victims, and to yourself, to say so."

The pastor hesitates, just for a moment. Cas takes the opening.

"We can protect you," he insists, "Help us get these bastards. Please."

The man looks down, fiddles with the hem of his blanket.

"I..." He trails away.

"It's okay Gideon, " Cas says quietly, "We're the good guys. I promise."

The pastor stares up at the fluorescents, "Everyone's a good guy these days."

"What does that mean?" Asks Hannah.

Gideon closes his single eye and sighs.

"The last person who promised to protect me wound up dropping the ball big time. Why should I trust you to do his job any better?"

His voice is laced with bitterness. Whomever he had entrusted his safety to had majorly screwed him over. Cas treads carefully.

"I don't know who you trusted before," he says, "but this is what we do. We have precedent, resources. We can take care of you."

Gideon sighs again. Deeper this time, heavy with resignation.

"What do you want to know?"

"Start with what happened."

The preacher, slowly, cautiously, begins to report being taken by three men in alleyway outside a coffee shop. He talks of being drugged and waking up god knows where, chained to a chair. He describes a beautiful young woman who spoke with a voice sweet like candy and who burned him with a branding iron shaped like the sun.

"What did she want?" Hannah asks?

Here the pastor goes quiet once again.

"It's important," Cas presses.

"She didn't want anything from me," he finally says, "She was using me to get to... someone else."

"The same someone who was supposed to be protecting you?" Hannah guesses.

Cas is impressed with her intuition as the tingling in his skull had just been whispering the same thing.

The pastor hesitates, then nods.

"She's been going after the people he's... that cares about for a while, I think," the preacher offers, "I think he thought he could play God, cut her off at the pass."

Again the reference sends sparks zig zagging down Cas's spine.

Hannah puts down the pad she's been taking notes on, "Who is this person?" She asks.

Cas can tell Hannah is dying to know, leaning so close to edge of knowledge just beyond her grasp she's close to toppling over. And with good reason. There's an excellent chance this man is the missing link they've been searching for all these months. The one who will tie all the gruesome beheadings together. The mystery surrounding his identity is the one thing standing in their way.

But the senior agent, for his part, is experiencing a different kind of anxiety. The tingling in his brain has reached it's peak. And that can only mean one thing...

"You'll arrest me if I tell you," the pastor says. His trepidation only fortifies Castiel's suspicion.

"I'll arrest you if you don't," says Hannah, losing patience. Cas puts a hand on her arm.

"If what you say pans out," he soothes while simultaneously fighting his own jangled nerves, "we can talk to the higher ups about immunity. There's people's lives at stake here, Father."

The preacher nods, his conscience getting the better of him. And he speaks the one word Cas's sixth sense has been screaming at him silently this entire time.

"Winchester."

Hannah drops her pen.

The flight home is spent mostly in silence, Cas too wrapped up in his own thoughts to speak and Hannah knowing better than to try and make him.

He should have seen it sooner. Why hadn't he seen it? Has his blind spot really grown so big? Or was it objectively a long shot? He can't even tell anymore. And that terrifies him.

The fact that Dean is back to actively saving good people rather than simply killing the bad ones warms his heart in a way that is probably suspect considering what the serial killer has done in the past. But Cas almost doesn't care. It's reminiscent of a younger, more innocent Dean Winchester, if such a beast ever existed. One who believed in his "calling" as more than striking down everyone who in his eyes was unworthy to breathe. One who believed in goodness and angels. One who had a soul.

And this woman, this new monster, she is trying to take that away from him.

She's chipping away at all the good Dean Winchester has done this world in his own twisted away. Culling out the people he's saved, people that give his life meaning. Cas now feels the blow of Jody Mills's death a hundred fold when he realizes what Dean must also be feeling in light of it. Understands with a sharp pang why the crime scene had been so neatly reinvented.

He also understands that finding Dean may be the key to finding this mystery woman. To putting an end to these sacrifices... because that's what they are. They're being sacrificed in the name of destroying Dean Winchester's soul. And if Cas can find Dean, and that's a big "if" then maybe, just maybe, he'll be able to save that too.

The question is why. Why would someone choose to commit such a crime? Whom had Dean wronged so badly they would go to such great and horrific lengths to destroy the last traces of goodness inside him? Why not just kill him like a normal person?

Maybe there is something more going on here. Maybe this isn't just about hurting Dean or the people he's saved. Maybe there's yet another agenda to uncover, another piece of the grotesque puzzle stubbornly refusing to slot into place.

The next few weeks are devoted to tracking down the Grim Reaper, with no luck. He's gone strangely quiet, as has the murderess, almost as if they'd reached some sort of understanding with the sparing of David Gideon. Cas begins to get a sinking feeling that maybe all of their hard work will be for naught, that justice will never be served for the victims or for Dean. That maybe they were too late. Too slow, too _stupid_ to see what was right in front of them. As always, when Dean Winchester gets involved, Cas begins to lose his faith.

One day, he's walking home from work, alone. It had been an especially late night. They thought they had a lead in southern Nebraska where a couple had been beheaded, but there were no burns and it had turned out to be a angry neighbor who had gotten pissed at them for stealing his newspapers for over two years and finally snapped. Just when Cas thought the world couldn't get any crazier.

They spent hours upon hours on it and Castiel is exhausted. He pauses at a crosswalk to rub his eyes, when he opens them again there's a young man standing in front of him, staring hard. Cas steps back, startled.

"Stop," the man says.

Castiel freezes in place.

The young stranger continues to stare. A dark car pulls up beside them. The back door opens.

"Dean Winchester. He cares about you?" The man asks seriously, then "Tell the truth."

Cas wants to bite his tongue off to keep from speaking the one word he suddenly realizes will condemn him. But he says it anyway.

"Yes."

"Get in," the man intones. And Cas finds himself strangely compelled to obey.

HIs brain screams at him to stop as his body moves toward the car and slides into the dark interior. Cas can only see the back of the driver's head. He doesn't turn around.

The man follows him inside. He turns his head sideways toward Castiel.

"Stay," he says.

Castiel does.

"Give me your phone."

Cas hands it over. The man tosses the device out the window. Cas winces as he hears it crack against the pavement. His heart is hammering in his chest. Every muscle tensed to _go, go, go_. But he can't. Who is this man? What the hell is happening to him?

A blindfold is slid over Cas's eyes. He's told not to take it off and the car starts to move.

Cas fights the urge to panic. He can feel his training kicking in, tries to focus on the time spent, the number of turns the car takes, the smells, the bumps in the road. But it's hard. There's no logical reason for him to be behaving the way he is. The man is not armed. He had not threatened him. He had simply spoken. And Cas had obeyed.

Cas's mind is reeling. Spinning back to hours spent pouring over the Tiger LIly files. Reading horror stories about drug-induced super powers: super strength, premonitions, fatal touches... and this. Forced obedience through speech alone. Is that what's happening here? No. That's insane. This has to be something else. There has to be another explanation.

But what?

Cas isn't sure exactly how long the ride takes. An hour. Maybe more.

They pull over...somewhere and the man tells him to get out. He does, awkwardly, still blindfolded.

The man directs him forward. Cas senses the moment he walks inside, sees the light around the edges off the cloth transform from the dimness of the streetlights to the flickering fluorescents, smells the stale dampness of the air. He hears a door slide shut behind him.

He's forced into a chair, told to stay, bound there. Minutes later the blindfold is lifted.

Cas realizes immediately he's in an old warehouse. The man is gone. In his place is a pretty young blonde woman in tight-fitting clothes. She's twirling a short iron pole between her fingers with ease. Like she does it all the time.

"Hola, Agent," she says smiling sweetly. _Sweet like candy_ , Cas thinks. His stomach tightens. "You and me are gunna have some fun!"


	3. Chapter 3

_No!_ Dean thinks, screams in his head, _No, no, no, no, goddamnit no!_

He slams an angry, frustrated hand against the steering wheel, trying and almost failing not to completely lose control. He has to focus. He has to drive.

He _has_ to get to Cas.

He swerves around cars on the mostly empty highway, weaving in and out of lanes as the hour wears on on the morning commute begins to pick up.

How the _fuck_ had this happened? Dean is going to _kill_ Bela Talbot. He's going to rip her apart, torture her, make her scream and beg for mercy. Make her wish she'd let those damn cult zombies kill her when she'd had the chance.

Deep down he knows it's not really her fault. That she was just looking out out for number one like she always does. Like he does whenever he can help it.

It's just easier to blame her. To blame Meg, to blame Yellow Eyes, and God, and the Universe and whatever and whomever else he can come up with to avoid the butt-ugly truth staring him in the face that is laughing maniacally, sending little droplets of spittle onto his skin that stink and sting, making him want to cringe and cover his face. Making him want to turn and run as far away as he can and hide under the covers...

This is _Dean's_ fault.

Dean's and no one else's. Not really.

This is the end result of wheels put into motion long ago. And _Dean_ is the one who pushed all those innocent people into Yellow Eyes's crosshairs. _Dean_ is the one who put Castiel Novak at risk. A man who has only ever done good with his life. And possibly the only person left in this world who is capable of actually give a damn about Dean Winchester and because of that...

Dean can't even think about it. He sees the images of past victims flash behind his eyes. The burn marks across their chests, their melted, sightless eyes. Jody's head tossed carelessly across the room. The Pastor's screams of agony still echo in his ears. _His_ fault. His fault. His fault.

The burning in his shoulder only grows worse as time passes, as he gets closer and closer to Chicago and he realizes with a pang of terror he has no way of finding Castiel. Doesn't even know for sure if the agent is still in the city at all. But he doesn't know where else to look. Doesn't know what else to do but drive.

He's racing through the suburbs, shattering every speed limit, when the pain abruptly cuts off, like a switch somewhere being flipped. Full-on panicking, he pulls to the side and twists to catch sight of the mark on his shoulder half-scared, in his slightly crazed state, that it might be gone.

But no. It still sits there, as defined and permanent as ever. Though the angry red glowing seems to have dissipated with the pain. He brushes a light finger against it. It feels tender, sore, like a bad sunburn. Dean's face screws up in frustration and confusion. What does it mean?

Surely it doesn't mean...

Can't mean...

No. Dean won't let it. He refuses.

But he doesn't know what to do.

Meg's final words ring through his frazzled brain: _Stand down. Or we'll go after someone you really care about._

He hadn't listened. He'd spat in the face of her mercy by going to Frank and now she's making good on her promise.

Dean lets his head fall against the steering wheel, grits his teeth to keep from screaming.

 _Focus!_

It's his dad's voice in his head this time. Powerful and firm, shaking him out his self-pity, his state of worthlessness.

Dean sits up straight. Those bastards used that cowardly witch to seek out Dean's weakness. Well, two could play at that game.

Dean starts the car back up and speeds off in a new direction. He just prays Cas holds out until he gets there.

Dean drives like a bat out of hell until he reaches the inner city and is forced to slow. By this time the six AM rush hour is in full bloom and he winds up swearing and honking with the worst of them. He weaves through the tight city streets until he reaches downtown and then drives even further, deep into the seedy underbelly of Chicago. He rolls through a forest of flickering neon and chipping paint. Of dark alleys and busted street lamps. Narrow turns and haunted corners.

He gets lots of sideways glares in his big fancy car and is approached more than once by a lingering lady of night. But such cheap fare isn't what he's after this morning. He finally rolls up behind a tall building with a neon sign reading _Astaroth's Girls._ The bricks are coated in ash and soot from the factory next door. The whole block reeks of sulfur.

Due to the hour, the inside is mostly empty. A few old men in suits sit on mismatched furniture with girls in their laps, quietly flirting. Against the back wall is a bar, the bartender practically asleep with his head on his arms. The whole space is bathed in a dim red light.

A few of the girls glance up when he walks through the entryway and smile. One of them abandons her current man altogether, gets up, and floats over to him. She places a tender hand on his shoulder and flashes him a seductive grin.

"Hello, stranger," she coos, "You looking for a good time?"

"I'm looking for Ruby," says Dean, straight to the point.

"Ruby?" The girl asks innocently, "I don't know no Ruby."

"Cut the bullshit."

The girl wrinkles her nose in distaste.

"Aw, come on now. Whatever she did for you, I can do better. Promise."

"Not what I'm here for," says Dean coldly pushing her away her wandering hand, "Where is she?"

The girl steps back with a huff. "Fine then. Your loss," she tosses her dark hair over her shoulder, "Wait here." She spins on her razorlike stiletto and disappears behind a red curtain.

Dean resists the urge to fidget and pace the room. He doesn't have time for this. _Cas_ doesn't have time for this. But it's the only play he's got. Five minutes pass like five hours before a beautiful woman brushes through the flowing curtain and strides forward. She catches sight of him and freezes in her tracks.

"Michael," she whispers, looking like she's seen a ghost.

"That's not my name," Dean reminds her.

"What do you want?"

Dean tilts his head toward the door. She follows him outside without a word.

"What are you doing here, Dean?" She asks once they are safely out of earshot of any nosy onlookers, "You're supposed to be dead."

"So are you."

Ruby shrugs. "I guess we both found a way to cheat it."

Dean doesn't have time for small talk, "I need information."

"About Azazel?"

Dean frowns, "Who?"

Ruby rolls her eyes. "Right," she says, "What do you call him? Yellow Eyes?"

Dean open and closes his mouth in shock before remembering the situation at hand, silently filing the name away.

"About Meg," he corrects, almost reluctantly, vowing to return and milk her for as much information as he can torture out of her at a later date. Right now though, he has to prioritize, "I need to know about Meg."

Ruby's eyebrows shoot up. "Meg?" She asks incredulously, "You have one huge favor to call in and you're going to waste it on that wraith?"

"Yes. I need to know where she is."

"Do I look psychic to you?"

Dean is losing patience. Without thinking, he wraps a firm hand around the prostitute's throat and pushes her up against the outer wall.

"Listen, bitch," he growls, "I'm on a clock here. So if you wanna keep those pretty eyes inside of your head you'd better tell me everything you know about her. And I'd talk fast."

"There a problem here?"

Dean lets go and steps back. He turns to to see a large man with what looks like a permanent scowl on his face.

"No, sir," says Dean easily, "No problem."

The man's beady little eyes rove over him carefully before moving to Ruby. Dean holds his breath, fingers slowly wrapping around knife handle in his waistband, muscles bracing for a fight.

"It's fine, Reggie," says Ruby and Dean feels himself relax. Maybe Ruby really does know what's best for her...and for her big friend. "We're just having a good ol' time."

The man's eyes narrow and Dean tenses up. He's not stupid, he recognizes a code word when he hears one.

Before Dean can blink the man is on him, wrestling him down. Just before his knees buckle under the man's gargantuan weight, Dean twists and sends him flying into the wall instead. Dean jumps on the man's back, grabs the back of his head and smashes his skull into the filthy, unforgiving bricks. Once. Twice. Three times. He feels Ruby clawing at his arms and back and shrugs her off roughly, turning briefly to toss her onto the pavement. When he does, the man crumples to the ground. Dean promptly stomps on his chest, knocking any remaining air from his lungs and surely cracking a few ribs.

He grabs a wide-eyed Ruby by the wrist and tugs her away into a side alley. He grips her by the throat again and slams her up against the wall. He pulls out his knife and presses it against her quivering stomach. She's shaking all over. He can feel her try and swallow past the pressure of his palm.

"See what happens when you try to be smart?" Dean snarls.

"Please," she whispers.

"Tell me where Meg is!"

"I don't know," she shakes her head rapidly, "I don't know, Dean."

Dean slides the knife against her skin, drawing blood and she winces.

"Try again."

"Dean, I swear-"

"Don't lie to me! You owe me!"

He pushes the knife in further. A single tear escapes Ruby's shining eyes.

"I don't-"

"You know _something_!"

Ruby swallows hard. She draws a shaky breath.

"Okay. Okay. I heard... I heard they hauled Andy out last night." Dean's eyes widen.

"For the first time in years," the frightened girl continues, "I don't know why but...it must be something big."

"Andy?" Dean clarifies, "That reverse Ella Enchanted freak?"

Ruby nods and Dean feels something inside him grow cold. "They don't like to travel far with him. I know they were keeping him in the westside. The warehouse district. That's all I know, Dean. I swear that's it."

Dean tightens his grip slightly. He hears the man around the corner groan as he starts to wake.

"If I find out you're lying..."

"I'm not. Dean, please. I swear I'm not."

Dean gives the knife an extra flick for good measure and another tear drops down the girl's face.

He leaves her there, bleeding, terrified, and alone and disappears into the night.

Dean redlines it to the warehouse district and begins circling through the massive buildings, looking out for any hint of Meg and Cas's whereabouts, any sign of a disturbance.

Dean's completely on edge. He could be wasting valuable time here. Castiel's time. He has no guarantees on any of this. Whether he can trust Ruby's word, or Bela's. Whether the cult's sudden decision to activate Andy Gallagher of all people actually has any connection at all to Meg or Cas. Whether Andy's last known location is any indication of his current one. Whether Castiel is even still alive...

Dean drives in circles, thinks in circles, talks himself up and down, in and out leaving. Half of him wants to leave and go shake more information out of Ruby, out of Bela, out of anyone else he can think of...

But it's not long before he hears the screaming.

* * *

 _Three Hours Earlier_

The branding iron stings like a mother. It screams against his flesh like nothing Castiel has ever felt before save once. Ages ago when he pulled two little boys out of a fire, slipping and dropping his hand into an acid-like substance that took off the top layer of skin from his fingers and palm. It had taken months to heal and to this day the skin of his right hand still presents a shade and a half redder than his left.

He'd been busy at the time. Adrenaline racing through his veins prevented him from actually feeling the burn to its fullest extent until much later. He has no such luck this time around.

Every nerve, every braincell and pain receptor is completely devoted to the agony currently being inflicted upon him by a gleeful demoness. She laughs as she burns him. In between fits of giggles and taunts, she occasionally turns serious, berates him, asks him questions. Questions about Dean and their history. Cas is eerily reminded of his dream. Only there will be no last minute rescue this time. Nobody even knows that he's here.

Sometimes Cas answers her, gives into the pain, desperate for reprieve. Sometimes he doesn't. Realizes what she's asking for is too personal, too damaging. He stays strong.

He's angry as well as hurting, angry at this vicious woman who has tortured and killed so many in the name of hurting just one man. So he holds out. He holds out and he prays for a miracle.

After what feels like hours, Cas is barely conscious. His shirt is open, his chest covered in the circular burns. The stench of burning flesh permeates the air.

"You know," the woman drawls, twirling the hot iron between her fingers once again, "This really would go much smoother if you'd just cooperate. It's a just few teeny questions, handsome. You can tell me what I want to know, can't you?"

Cas doesn't answer. Can't, at this point.

The woman leans forward and burns him again. Cas lets out a pained gurgle, his throat too raw to properly scream.

"Come on, now. You can do better than that."

Another burn.

Cas's eyes slide closed.

He hears a phone ring.

" _What?_ " The woman snaps, all phony sweetness vanished. "Where?...Shit."

She hangs up and gestures behind Cas. She disappears as rough hands unbind him and haul him to his feet. They drag the agent deeper into the dark warehouse and toss him into a storage cage. Cas hears the door lock behind him and is left there, staring up at the ceiling, moaning softly, trying to get his breathing under control.

"Hey," a quiet voice whispers in the dark, and Cas flinches, expecting more pain.

But none comes.

"Are you alright? I mean, I know you're not alright but... you know. Are you alive, at least?"

"Who...?" Cas croaks. It's all he can manage.

A familiar face comes into view, leaning over him, softly illuminated by a dim yellow light.

Cas immediately cringes away, tries to sit up but collapses, weak from pain and exhaustion.

"No," he whispers, "Please!"

"Woa, woa, woa," the man says, "Calm down. I'm not gunna hurt ya."

Cas immediately feels his body begin to relax, his breath slowly returning to normal.

"Just stay still," the man says and the shivers wracking Cas's tormented body slow and subside. He tries to move again and finds that he can't. But somehow he can't find it in himself to be alarmed. A strange sense of calm has taken over his body and mind.

"I wish I could tell you it's gunna be okay," the man says sadly, "but I can at least promise you you're safe from me. For now."

"Who are you people?" Cas rasps.

The man's eyebrows creep together in a frown. "My name is Andy," he says, "but I'm not with them. They're monsters."

For the first time Cas notices something around the man's neck. If he didn't know any better, he'd swear it looked suspiciously like a collar.

"You're a prisoner?"

Andy nods. "Going on six years now. They don't pull me out of here very often. You must be pretty damn important."

Cas shakes his head, but doesn't answer. He's not important. The only reason he'd caught their attention in the first place was because of his history with Dean. And as soon as they've tortured all that information out of him, which Cas has no doubt they eventually will, he'll have served his only purpose and they'll no doubt dispose of him in a manner most befitting their personalities.

Cas lets his eyes close. Lets the bizarre calm wash over him. Too pained to even think.

"Hey, man," Andy calls, "Wake up. Don't you pass out on me."

Cas's eyes fly open and immediately he feels wildly alert. Still tired, but awake. Like he just drank five cups of coffee.

"How are you doing that?" He asks.

The man hesitates.

"We all have our gifts," says Andy quietly, "...and curses."

Cas's tired mind struggles to put the pieces together.

"You work for Tiger Lily?"

Andy drops his eyes. It's all the answer Cas needs. Well, that's one mystery solved.

"We need to get out of here," he says. He tries to sit up again but remains immobilized. "Can you...um, let me up?"

"You should rest."

Andy won't meet his gaze. It doesn't take the agent long to figure it out.

"You're supposed to keep me here."

The younger man looks away in shame.

"What do they have on you?"

Andy shakes his head, "Doesn't matter. There's nothing anybody can do about it."

"I'm with the FBI," Cas croaks, "I could help you."

Andy actually huffs a laugh. "Agent," he says, shaking his head, "You can't even help yourself." He pauses, then tilts his head to the side, "...But I can."

Before Cas knows what's happening, the man leans down and whispers in his ear. " _Don't feel the pain_."

And instantaneously, it vanishes.

Cas stares up at him, wide-eyed.

"You aren't healed," the man warns, "I can't do that."

Cas doesn't even care. "Thank you."

"I wish I could do more."

"You could," Cas pushes, "You could help me get out of here. Help _us_ get out of here. Just let me up."

Andy's eyes meet his own briefly before floating up to the ceiling. Cas follows his gaze to the camera blinking at him in the upper corner of the cage.

"You're not the only one being held down," he says quietly.

The man looks so pained, so resigned, Cas feels his heart swell with pity. How many more people will be hurt in Tiger Lily's sick, twisted game?

 _"...Is Bobby around?"_

 _Cas opens his mouth, then closes it and wordlessly points over his shoulder at the house from which another crash promptly emanates._

 _The woman looks at the house, looks at him, then back to the house._

 _"Thanks," she says and brushes past him without another word.  
_

 _Cas hears muffled voices and more crashing. Pretty soon all three occupants are shouting strings of expletives while simultaneously shushing each other._

 _Cas waits, wide-eyed, wondering when this would fall under "exigent circumstances" and weighing that against his need for Bobby's cooperation. The agent is just about to say 'fuck it' and go in weapon ready when the door opens and the woman appears looking a bit frazzled, but smiling widely nonetheless._

 _"Hello again, agent," she says breathlessly, "Is there something I can help you with?"_

 _"I need to speak with Mr. Singer."_

 _"Mr. Singer is...occupied. Pipe burst, you know. Just give him a minute, I'm sure he'd be happy to speak with you. In the meantime is there anything I can do for you?"_

 _Cas stares at her for so long, she begins to look uncomfortable. His eyes drop to her badge and he wonders..._

 _"You know the Winchester family?" He finally inquires._

 _The woman's eyes widen fractionally, but she recovers herself quickly. "I read the papers. Bunch of crazies, I'd say."_

 _"But have they ever passed through_ here _?"_

 _The woman huffs a nervous laugh, "Here? Nah. Nothing too exciting ever happens round these parts, I'm afraid. Best we got is the occasional wayward grizzly."_

Crash.

 _Cas raises an eyebrow._

 _"I'm Sheriff Mills, by the way," she says cordially, offering her hand, which Cas hesitantly takes._

 _"Special Agent Novak."_

 _More swearing from inside, then suddenly it all goes quiet._

 _Bobby appears behind the sheriff._

 _"Oh," he says, "Novak. You're still here."_

 _"I'm not leaving until you talk to me," says Cas simply._

 _Singer's face lights up like that is the most brilliant suggestion he's ever heard._

 _"Talk!" He exclaims, pushing past Mills and taking the agent by the arm, turning him away from the house, "Of course we can talk. Let's talk!"_

 _Cas stares at the other man in confusion. Then he glances back at the now-closed door through which the sheriff has just disappeared and he understands._

 _"Everything okay in there?" He ventures._

 _"'Course," says Singer easily, but his shifting eyes betray his nerves._

 _"Anything I can help with?"_

 _"Nope. Everything's under control. Now, about those Winchesters?"_

 _Cas realizes he's being taken for a fool, but if that's what it takes to get information about Dean and his family, so be it._

 _"Do you know where they went?"_

 _"No clue. Didn't even know they took off on ya 'til you showed up."_

 _Somehow, Cas doubts that._

 _"What is your relationship to them, exactly?"_

 _"Off the record?"_

 _Cas weighs his options. He's not here to bust Singer. He's here to find Dean and his family. The agent supposes if anything truly horrible comes up he can always find a way to deal with it later._

 _Cas nods._

 _"Known John a long time," says Singer, "He saved my life a while back. Been friends ever since."_

 _Cas's brows shoot up in surprise._

 _"He saved your life?"_

 _Singer nods. "Don't get me wrong though," he adds, "John's a grade-A bastard if there ever was one. Mostly I've stuck around because of those boys."_

 _The agent can tell Singer's focus is split. His eyes keep darting back to the house as he shifts his weight nervously from foot to foot._

 _"Did you know Dean and his brother are murderers?"_

 _Singer suddenly affords Cas his undivided attention and adopts a look of genuine anger._

 _"Don't call them that! They're children, Fed. Children who had to learn hard and fast how to take care of themselves. Dean especially."_

 _"I'm aware of that."_

 _"Are you? How much do know, Fed? You said you're the one who pulled them out of that fire, so you obviously know how it all started. But do you even know what_ it _is? Do you have any idea the kind of hell John Winchester has been putting his boys through day after day, year after year?"_

 _The older man is becoming agitated. Cas feels suddenly defensive._

 _"If it's that bad, why haven't you come forward before?"_

 _Singer breathes heavily through his nose. "Because...I believe he's right. In his own, twisted way John is preparing those boys for the horrors that will plague them for the rest of their lives. They've been marked, see? Practically since birth. There was no escaping it. John's just doing the best he can."_

 _"And if that turns his teenage sons into killers?"_

 _"It's a shame. I won't deny that. Those boys deserved a childhood. But we don't always get what we want. In fact, it seems we hardly ever do."_

 _Cas lets the weight of Singer's word settle around him. He's not sure truer words were ever spoken. He takes a step forward._

 _"What do you mean they're 'marked'?"_

He and the man speak off and on over the next hour or so. Whenever Cas's mind starts to drift, Andy forcibly calls it back and Cas is grateful, in a way. As much as he'd like to escape this nightmare, if only for a moment, he needs to keep his head in the game if he ever wants to escape it permanently. With or without the younger man's help.

Andy does help him to sit up at one point, physically maneuvering him to lean against the cage wall. Cas is awake and pain-free but still very weak, not to mention the immobilization order still tying him down. Once seated, Cas finally gets a good look at his surroundings. What he see surprises him.

He's not sure what he was expecting, something more dungeon-like maybe, but certainly not the almost-homey feel of the storage cage. The soft yellow light illuminating the space is coming from a small lamp seated on top of a wooden desk in the corner. Against the far wall is a small bed. Apart from that, every square inch of space is stacked with piles upon piles of books. Band posters hang from the mesh wiring and Cas is almost positive he sees a bong lying on the bed. In fact, the only thing about the space that separates it from a college dorm are the locked door and the security camera.

Cas wants to comment on the generous accommodations for someone who was supposedly here against his will, but all that comes out is, "That's a lot of books."

Andy gives a bitter smile.

"None are more hopelessly enslaved than those who falsely believe they are free," he quotes quietly. And Cas realizes this apparently simple man has read every single one of these books.

What little they say to each other after that confirms Cas's terrifying theory that Andy had indeed gotten his frightening power through the use and abuse of Demon Blood. Though it hadn't been his idea. A while back he'd been buying some pot off his dealer and stumbled across something he shouldn't have. Rather than kill him, Tiger Lily's people had held him down and injected the drug into his throat. Soon after, his ability manifested and he'd used it to escape. But then, weeks later, _something_ happened.

Here, Andy grows quiet and the spotty conversation pretty much dies out in spite of Cas's many attempts to get him going again.

Andy refuses to talk about just _why_ he continues to work for Tiger Lily despite his apparent power to escape.

So Cas talks instead. He speaks quietly, measuring each word.

"I know it seems hopeless," he says, "but there's always a way. If you've got something worth fighting for. Do you have something worth fighting for, Andy? Some _one_ maybe?"

The look Andy gives him let's Cas know he's struck a sore spot.

But the kid just asks, "Do _you_ , agent?"

Cas thinks of Hannah. Of Anna. All his friends at work. And... others.

"I have people I care about. People who care about me. People who will care if I don't come home."

"Then, I'm sorry," says Andy, sounding sincere.

"Don't be. People like that are worth living for."

Andy gazes at the wall for a long moment. His hand absently fingers the collar-like necklace around his throat.

"Are they worth dying for?"

Images spin through Cas's tired mind. Stepping into a house fire to save two strangers. The countless times Anna, Hannah, and the others have placed themselves in harm's way to save each other, to save him, to save civilians. Teenage Dean throwing himself on loaded gun. Hannah performing exhaustive CPR through her tears after the stabbing.

"Absolutely," answers Castiel.

Andy falls silent again.

Not long after the two of them sink into a deeply uncomfortable silence, the cage door opens and Cas is yanked to his feet. Cas doesn't know where the men were planning on taking him. Back for more torture? To a more secure prison? To his death? It didn't matter.

It didn't matter because, in that second, Andy whispered something under his breath. And Cas felt the invisible chains confining him shatter like sugar glass.


	4. Chapter 4

It starts off easy enough.

With Andy's spell broken Cas's true strength is at his disposal once again. His body is still weakened, but the adrenaline coursing through his veins, his panicked will to survive, more than makes up for the deficit.

He elbows the first man holding him in the mouth and he lets go, holding his bleeding face. The other man moves to grab him and Cas grips him by the wrist and easily swings him around, sending both men crashing into the cage with a metal clang.

Cas roughly grabs both men by the napes of their necks and forces them to their knees. They struggle to rise but it's futile. Just because he can, and because he's pissed, Cas pushes their heads all the way to the floor with just a touch more force than necessary. He hears a gasp and looks up to see Andy staring at him wide-eyed.

"How did you do that?" Andy asks, awed, slowly rising to his feet. Cas raises an eyebrow.

"We all have our gifts," he answers dryly and Andy's eyes grow even bigger.

"You're one of them!" The first man snarls from the ground. Cas doesn't bother with a witty retort.

"If you would..." He says to Andy, nodding at the men at his feet.

For a second, the younger man looks confused, then it dawns on him. Andy hurries to kneel in front of the men and utters, " _Sleep_."

The two men are snoring before they hit the ground.

Then things get tricky.

In all the excitement, Cas had forgotten about the camera until Andy points up with a fearful expression.

"We should go," he says, "Things are gunna get messy."

Cas nods and the two men race into the darkness of the warehouse.

Castiel lets Andy lead the way through the prison he knows so well. They weave around tall shelving, towers of crates, storage cage after storage cage. Finally, they round a corner and a set of double doors comes into view. That's when their good luck runs out.

Four men emerge from the shadows. With guns. Cas freezes where he stands. He may be strong but he's not bullet-proof.

"Drop your-" Andy starts, but he abruptly cuts off with a sharp choking sound. Cas looks across and sees his ally doubled over, clawing weakly at his throat. He turns back to the men guarding the door, wide-eyed, and Meg strolls into their sightline, holding a thin black remote.

"Ah ah ah," she tsks, "None of that Andrew."

Andy's eyes are bugging out of his head, the collar crushing his windpipe. He falls to his knees. Meg tilts her head to the side. "Really, kiddo?" She asks, "You know better than to try something like this. Think of that poor girl. What's going to happen to her now?"

Andy manages to choke out one word, " _No_."

"Let him go!" Cas shouts,"Whatever you're doing, stop!"

Nobody moves. Meg's gaze drifts lazily from Andy to Cas and then back again. Andy's face is turning blue.

"Stop! You're killing him!"

"Mr. Gallagher broke the rules," says Meg, fingers dancing teasingly over the remote, "We gave him his gift. He thinks he can use it against us? He's wrong."

Cas drops to Andy's side and no one makes a move to stop him. The boy's struggles grow weaker, his eyes begin to close.

Cas reaches for the collar, but he can't get a grip, it's too tight.

"Will you stop?" Cas cries, "He's going to die. He's valuable, isn't he? You're really willing to lose him?" Cas is scrambling. Anything to make this stop.

"Tools are no good if there broken," says Meg.

"Then stop breaking him!"

She hits the button.

Cas feels the collar loosen beneath his grasping fingers and Andy sucks in a greedy breath. It's the greatest sound Cas has ever heard. The young man collapses onto his hands and knees, coughing and heaving.

"Andy," Cas breathes into his ear, "Get ready."

The gasping man looks sideways at him, eyes confused, but he nods all the same.

"Take them," says Meg, almost bored.

As the men start to close in, Cas gets a firm hold on Andy's collar with each hand and pulls. It snaps like a loose thread.

Meg's eyes widen in alarm. Before she can get a word out, Andy shouts, "Freeze!"

Everyone does.

Including Cas.

Andy stands slowly, a hand carefully rubbing at his liberated throat. A dark bruise rings his neck.

"Drop your weapons," he says, his voice raw from the strangling. The four men do. Andy walks slowly over to one of them.

"Andy," Cas manages, from his place on the floor,"What are you doing?"

The kid bends down on scoops up the man's fallen gun. He weighs it experimentally in his hands.

"Weird," he says quietly, "Never held one of these before. Not a real one. Never needed to."

"Andy."

"It's heavier that I thought, you know? It's heavy."

"Andy, don't."

"Six years, Agent. Six years they've held me here. Holding Tracy over me. Keeping in line with _that_." He points with the gun at the collar lying limp by Cas's feet. "Enough's enough, you know? You get it?" He seems to be talking himself into something. Cas doesn't like it.

"It's their turn," he says, leveling the weapon at Meg's frozen form.

"Come on, kid," Meg spits, "You don't have the guts."

"Andy, listen to me. You don't have to do this. This isn't who you are."

"Oh, yeah?" Andy answers without looking away, "And you know who I am, Agent? You think you know me?"

"I know you're better than this. I know you're better than _them_."

"Am I?" He asks, voice choked with emotion, "How long can you work with monsters before you become one?"

The younger man doesn't wait for Cas's answer. He lowers the gun and turns around. There's a darkness in his eyes the likes of which Cas has rarely seen. Only in the faces of those men and women who've done unspeakable things. Terrible things.

"You four," he says coldly, nodding his head toward Meg, "Torture her. Make her scream."

And they do.

Cas watches, horrified as they rip at her skin and pull her tongue from her mouth. They tear her hair from her head, her clothes from her body. The sounds she makes are nightmarish. And through it all, as blood splashes on his face and Andy stands there, shaking, tears running down his face, Cas can't help but feel a grim sense of satisfaction. It's not the justice he imagined for the demon. But it's so much closer to what the bitch deserves.

But there's a sadness also, underneath the fear. A deep, unrelenting sense of mourning. For the death of Andy Gallagher's soul.

Finally, when there's nearly nothing left to shred, Andy shouts "Stop."

The four men stop where they stand and Meg's body falls to the earth as a bloody pulp.

Andy drops to his knees and hunches over, sobs shaking his shoulders. Cas longs to approach him, but he's still frozen by his mind control.

"Andy," he calls softly. Cas doesn't hear what Andy chokes out, but whatever it is frees him from his bonds. Immediately, he's by the younger man's side. "Hey," he says, gripping the other man by the shoulders and turning him to face him. Andy looks completely lost, his eyes are wet and far away.

"What did I do?" He whispers.

"Hey," Cas says again, "It's okay. It's okay. It's like you said, she was a monster." Cas suppresses a shudder as he realizes who he sounds like.

"Yeah, but-"

"It's over. It's over, Andy. You're free."

Andy finally meets his eyes and shakes his head. "No," he says, "I'm not."

"What do you mean?"

Andy takes a sharp breath, "They still have her. They still have Tracy."

"Who?"

"I have to save her!"

"Okay. Okay, calm down. First, I think we need to get out of here."

"They saw you," Andy whispers, "They know what you are. You'll never be safe from them."

Cas swallows, "That's my problem."

Castiel is about to pull Andy to his feet when something catches his eye. Something shiny and metallic by Meg's body. He scurries over and scoops it up, finding to his horror that it's a phone. A phone with a call sent out just minutes before.

"Andy," says Cas, "We've gotta go."

Suddenly a shot echoes through the warehouse and Cas hears a body thump behind him. He whirls around and sees one of the two men they'd left sleeping. He's standing over Andy's fallen form with a gun in his hand, the barrel still smoking.

"No!" Cas screams. He wants to charge at the man and rip him limb from limb as the man levels his weapon at him, but in that moment a red dot appears on the man's forehead and a second gunshot echoes throughout the space. Blood splatters and the man drops to ground, dead.

Cas spins where he stands, frantically searching for the sniper, but seeing nothing past the small halo of light encircling them. However, Cas has more immediate problems. With Andy unconscious (or possibly dead) the four men surrounding them are freed from his power. They start closing in.

 _Bang!_

The first man drops.

 _Bang!_

A second.

One after the other, gunshot after gunshot, they fall, until Cas is left, standing alone in a sea of blood and bodies.

He desperately scans the darkness, waiting for the dot to appear on his own chest.

But it doesn't. And a pained gurgle from Andy sends Cas flying to his side. The man lies in a pool of blood, red gushing from his chest. His breath comes in sharp gasps and his eyes are wild.

"Andy," Cas breathes, forcing back tears for a boy he barely knows, "Stay with me."

Andy's flailing hand finds Cas's arm and grips it with a strength the agent would have guessed was beyond him. " _Tracy_ ," he chokes, "Please. Find her. Save her."

That's not a promise Cas can keep. He wouldn't even know where to start looking.

"Andy-"

" _Save her, Agent_."

Cas nods.

The boy's eyes slide closed.

Cas curses and drops his head, body shaking with repressed sobs. How could he have let this happen? They were in the clear. They'd done it, escaped. And Andy, after six long years of indentured servitude to monsters to be so close to freedom only to...

Suddenly, a slick gagging sound startles him back to reality.

His head snaps up just in time to see the second man Andy had put to sleep stumble and fall, gun sliding from his limp hand and blood pouring from his throat where it had just been slit. His body drops and Cas see the knife-holder standing behind him. A face Cas thought he'd never see again.

"Hello, Angel."

* * *

 _20 Minutes Earlier_

Dean follows the woman's screams to a large warehouse, the only one in the lot with a light shining through the cracks of the sealed double doors. He circles the building once, trying to do recon, but there are no windows low enough through which to see anything useful. He parks and pushes down the overwhelming urge to barge in guns drawn, caution be damned. This is the cult he's dealing with. He needs to be smart about this.

He pops the trunk and loads up with an assortment of weapons, including a medium-range sniper rifle, knowing he needs to be prepared for whatever is in store for him inside that warehouse and _not_ having the faintest clue what to expect.

He's scaling the fire escape, listening to the screams grow fainter and farther between when suddenly he hears a man shout, "Stop!" And the yelling cuts off altogether. He ducks inside a high window onto a rickety service balcony ringing the warehouse. To his right he can see a dim circle of light illuminating the concrete floor. He can hear the low murmur of voices and a quiet sobbing echoing throughout the enormous space, but the high shelving blocks the source from his view. Dean moves toward the light slowly, measuring each step. He rounds the shelf and what he sees makes him want to punch the air in victory.

Cas is alive! Unbound, and not being tortured to death. Meg is lying on the ground in a pool of her own blood and hair and skin, dead as a doornail. Four men stand over her body, strangely motionless. This gives Dean pause for a moment before he sees the sixth man, kneeling on the ground with Castiel.

Andy.

Of course.

Had the boy switched sides? It would appear so. But he can't be sure. Dean kneels down and sets up his rifle, just in case, praying he won't need to use it. Cas and Andy seem to have the situation well in-hand. Maybe he won't need to intervene after all.

Dean watches with the rifle as Castiel rises and moves over to Meg's body. Through the scope he can see the other man pick up something lying next to the body. Cas does not look good. He looks exhausted and beaten down, pained and panicked. Dean feels a protective, vengeful anger rise up in his gut when he sees the blood covering Cas's body and the burn marks showing through his open shirt. If Meg weren't already dead, he'd kill her.

Dean is so distracted, fuming over the state of his Angel, he doesn't see the shooter until it's too late.

The gunshot rings out and Andy falls.

"No!" Cas shouts.

Dean hesitates only a second, only long enough for the gunman to raise his weapon at Castiel before taking him out. No one gets to threaten his Angel and live.

The other men, free of Andy's spell, begin moving in. Dean takes them out in quick succession. Not missing once.

Underneath the adrenaline, Dean is actually feeling pretty good right about now. Taking out cult trash always brings up those warm fuzzy feelings inside of him.

Cas rushes over to Andy's fallen form and Dean, after watching him for a moment, packs it up and heads down the narrow stairs, meaning to slip away into the night. There is no need for Castiel to ever even know he was here.

It's better this way.

He's just about halfway down when he sees them.

Reinforcements. At least a dozen of them streaming toward the warehouse in cars, motorcycles, on foot. A whole slew of cult zombies.

Headed straight for Castiel.

Dean spins around and hightails it up the stairs, across the balcony, and down the inside steps. He's running toward Cas who is still hunched over Andy's body, when a sudden movement to his left freezes him in his tracks. They're not alone.

Dean's fingers twitch over his handgun but he forces himself to wait. Any more shots would alert the zombies outside to their location. He watches the man approach Castiel and silently follows, slowly unsheathing his hunting knife.

Just as the man levels his weapon at an oblivious Cas, Dean steps up behind him and slices his throat. And damn does it feel _good_.

Dean takes a sweet moment to relish the hot feeling of blood on his hands. The blood of a man who would have hurt Castiel. Killed him. Taking out assailants from a distance is one thing, but damn if Dean doesn't love the personal touch.

He's feeling so good, for a moment he forgets the imminent danger surging toward them from all sides. All he hears is the sound of his demons falling silent in his head, he smells the metallic odor of blood and gunpowder, sees the wide, beautiful, blue eyes of his Angel staring up at him. And he smiles.

"Hello, Angel."

" _Dean_?" The Angel breathes.

Just then the double doors burst open and in streams the mob of zombies.

"Time to go!"

Dean grabs Castiel by the hand and pulls him to his feet. The moment they touch the overhead light fixture explodes, sending shards of glass and sparks raining down on them and casting the whole space into shadow but for the early morning light now trickling in through the open doors and high windows.

They don't stop to question it, quickly disappearing into the darkness of the warehouse. Cas is either too scared or too shocked to protest Dean's hold on his hand and allows Dean to lead him back behind a large crate, deep in the building where they stop to catch their breath.

They can hear the men and women shouting and flinch as a few over eager zombies fire shots randomly into the dark.

"What are you doing here?" Cas hisses.

"You really wanna talk?"

 _Bang!_

A bullet ricochets off of a metal shelf and lodges itself in the crate they're sheltering behind. They take off and seek a new hiding place, pressing themselves into a dark corner.

"How did you find me?"

Dean unholsters his gun and peeks around the edge of the wall.

"What makes you think I came here for _you_? I was tracking Meg."

 _Bang!_

Another gunshot. Too close for comfort.

"Meg?"

"Yeah, psycho bitch was on a killing spree. Can't believe you beat me to her."

A zombie rounds a distant shelf and spots them. He shouts to his comrades and Dean puts a bullet in his chest.

"This is fun," he says as they run behind a storage cage, "It's like laser tag."

"It's like what?"

"Don't tell me you never played laser tag. You're a fucking cop!"

"Federal Agent."

 _Bang!_

A bullet buries itself in the wall between them.

They round another corner and find themselves surrounded on all sides.

 _Fuck_.

Now what?


	5. Chapter 5

There are fewer of them than Dean had originally thought. But they're still outnumbered three to one. One of the cultists steps forward. "Drop your weapon," he growls.

"You first," Dean replies boldly.

"You're funny."

"I'm hilarious," he responds, but he places his gun on the floor and kicks it over all the same.

Dean doesn't recognize the lead zombie, a tall, black, military-looking fellow, or any of the others. They've been recruiting.

"Well?" Dean asks, subtly placing himself between the leader and Cas, "What are you waiting for?"

The militant man raises an eyebrow. "I'm under orders," he says, "My father wants you alive."

Dean suppresses a shiver at the sharp reminder that it is Yellow Eyes, Azazel, who is really calling the shots here. Not Meg. After all these years he might finally come face to face with his mother's murderer. With the man who had set his home and his entire life ablaze in a single night.

"As for this one," the leader continues, nodding his head at Castiel, "My poor dead sister seemed to think you've got a soft spot for him. And it'll be handy to have a fed around. Who knows what he'll spill once we turn up the torment?"

Dean's jaw tightens at the very thought, but he bites his tongue. He doesn't need these guys- or Cas for that matter- knowing just how right Meg was in her assumption.

Dean's remaining weapons are confiscated and he and Cas are bound to separate chairs.

One of the zombies hangs up the phone and speaks to her leader, "Azazel will be here within the hour."

The military man nods, "Good." He turns to the two prisoners, "Don't try anything stupid. My father may prefer you alive, but I've got no problem kneecapping you both."

"Like the sight of boys helpless on their knees do you?"

The taller man doesn't grace his snark with an answer. Instead, he pulls up another chair and straddles the back, studying them both with a hard, inscrutable expression.

"Not for nothing," Dean says, "But the last time somebody looked at me like that, I got laid."

"Make all the jokes you want," the man answers coldly, "Won't change how royally screwed you are. Honestly, I'm a little disappointed. After everything I've heard about you. Wouldn't have expected the great Dean Winchester to go down so easily."

Dean shrugs as best he can in his bonds, "What can I say? Guess I'm having an off night. Or morning, whatever." He glances upward at the pale light dawning through the upper windows. It crosses his mind someone probably is noticing Castiel missing by now. He wonders if that will work in their favor. Or if that fact has occurred to their jailers.

"What's your name?"

Castiel speaks up for the first time and Dean looks over in surprise. The tall man's gaze shifts to the Fed.

"Jake. Not that it's any of your concern."

Cas's eyes are fixated on their captor, like there's no one else in the room.

"You're not here voluntarily. Are you?"

Jake's jaw muscles tighten and Dean's eyes widen at his Angel's boldness. .

"You're a prisoner just like the rest of us," Cas continues, "Just like Andy."

"That's enough."

"What do they have on you? Did they threaten your lover? Your family?"

"I said that's enough. My concerns are none of yours."

"I'll bet half this organization is here under duress, aren't they?"

The room goes silent. Dean feels something...unpleasant twist in his gut. What if Cas is right? What if the people he's killed...no. No, he would have known. Would have discovered their true nature while he was vetting them. And even if he'd somehow missed it, they were still murderers. Just as bad as he is if not worse. Right?

He'd known that Andy wasn't a member by choice. But what about the rest of them? What if...?

"You presume a lot, Fed," Jake says eventually, interrupting Dean's little morality crisis.

"I'm not wrong," Cas answers with so much confidence Dean wonders if he knows something Dean doesn't.

"No, you're not."

It's not Jake who speaks though. It's a woman's voice. All heads turn as a slim figure emerges from the shadows.

 _Ohhh shit,_ Dean thinks.

"There are two types of Demons," the woman continues, "Meatsuits, who are here because we force them. And the True Believers, who will inherit the earth as we know it."

"You realize how crazy you sound, right?" Dean asks, pushing down his panic.

"Hello, Dean," Ruby smiles, "Good to see you again. I believe I owe you a good slicing and dicing."

"Careful. I hear Daddy Dearest wants us in one piece."

Ruby's smile doesn't falter. "Azazel may want you alive," she replies, "But I answer directly to Lilith. And she's run out of patience."

At that, Jake and the others straighten up and back away. Ruby outranks them in a big way.

"So you're here to kill us?" Dean feels his heart rate speed up in spite of himself. So little gets him this excited anymore.

"Well, no. Not right away," Ruby amends, "You still have misdeeds to answer for. And we've got some questions for you and your little friend here. You could say I'm here for your...debriefing. Your very, very painful debriefing before you're relieved from service. Permanently." As she speaks, she draws a knife from god knows where and runs two fingers almost lovingly along its razor edge. "As you can imagine I requested this assignment. After you paid me your little visit. This is going to be so much fun, don't you think?"

"Ooodles," says Dean, as Ruby approaches with the knife. This is it. They're going to die.

Ruby presses the flat of her blade to Dean's throat and practically purrs with pleasure. "Oh, Winchester," she intones, "If you only knew the kind of pain that's coming your way."

"I think I've got a fairly good idea."

"No," she says, sliding the knife along the tendons in his neck, "You don't."

With that, she turns and flings the weapon in Castiel's direction where it buries itself in his shoulder. The fed lets out a yelp that's equal parts pain and surprise and Dean feels his blood simultaneously boil and freeze as he realizes what's about to happen.

"No," he says angrily as she moves toward his captive angel and gets a firm grip on the handle, "Hey. Get back here. This is between you and me, witch!"

"Oh," she says, moving to twist the knife, "I know. But you're a walking bleeding heart, Dean. And this is going to hurt you so much more."

"Don't!"

The shout comes from across the room and everyone turns to look. A young Demon is rushing toward them. "Get away from them," he calls, "I just saw the cameras. The Fed's one of the-"

He doesn't get to finish his warning. In that moment, Castiel is on his feet, the useless ropes snapping and falling to the ground. In seconds, he has Ruby pressed up against him, a steel-like hand closing around her throat.

"This again?" Ruby chokes and Dean has to admire her spunk in the face of almost certain death.

"How did you do that?" Jake asks, echoing Andy from earlier. But, unlike Andy, Jake isn't in awe. He just looks alarmed.

Instead of answering, Cas pulls the knife free from his body with a sickening _squish_. Without releasing his grip on Ruby, he leans over and slices the ropes holding Dean down. The younger man springs to his feet.

Jake levels his gun at Castiel. "Let her go!"

But Cas shakes his head. "You're letting us both walk out of here. Or I'll crush her windpipe. You know I can."

"Let them go, you idiot," Ruby snaps.

"You won't kill her," Jake scoffs, "You're a fed."

Cas falters and for a moment Dean imagines their doom is sealed.

But in the next second, the double doors fly open and in storms a fleet of FBI agents, SWAT, and Chicago PD.

Justice to the rescue.

"Drop your weapons, FBI," shouts the pretty young agent at the head of the group. Hannah, if Dean remembers correctly.

It's a standoff.

"Drop. Your. Weapons," Hannah repeats, steel in her voice.

Seconds pass like hours. Nobody moves.

Then the first guns drops.

Then another.

Like hailstones, they fall to earth. _Clang, clang, clang._

Cas releases Ruby and she doubles over, choking for air.

And just like that, the bomb is defused.

The next half hour or so is a blur. The zombies are arrested and escorted away.

As is Dean.

There's no point in fighting it. He's surrounded.

Dean is handcuffed and shoved roughly into the back of a police cruiser.

Two years of freedom, down the drain.

He stares hard at the metal bars separating the back seat from the cabin and fumes silently, trying to quell the monsoon of emotions raging inside of him. It wouldn't do any good to go berserk now. It'd only humiliate him further. And Dean has had quite his fair share of that in the past few hours, thank you very much.

Still, he's pissed. This is what he gets for trying to play the hero. More specifically, for letting his weakness for Castiel override his better judgement. After all, he'd jumped straight into the snake pit for him. Without even considering the consequences. He'd been prepared to risk death for his Angel. The possibility that he might get arrested had never crossed his mind.

A little ways across, Dean can see Castiel, sitting in the back of an ambulance, receiving preliminary treatment for his many burns. Maybe, in the end, it was worth it. His Angel would be dead if it weren't for his reckless interference. And that's something Dean knows he could never live with.

Later, Dean sits alone in his jail cell, waiting to be processed. It hadn't begun that way, though. At the start, a few officers thought they'd be funny and throw a group of drunk Bikers in there with him. They didn't last long. But the scuffle had left him a little worn and torn and with a fresh shiner.

After being re-cuffed and isolated, Dean finally starts to feel the weariness settle down around him. He hasn't slept in almost two days and the stress of the past few hours has left him drained, both physically and emotionally.

He's just starting to doze off when he hears the sound of men arguing at the door.

'"-sorry, sir. We've got orders. No one-"

"I'm a Federal Case Agent. Let me through."

Dean's eyes grow wide at the sound of his Angel's voice. What the hell is he doing here? He should be in the hospital.

Castiel rounds the corner and Dean slaps on the most neutral face he can muster; tired, a little irritated. He lets his shoulders slump against the cell wall and crosses his arms as much as can in the cuffs.

Cas looks...better. Still tired, still pained. But better. A little more in control. A little less like the whole world is crashing down around him. It also helps that his burns are now safely concealed underneath a crisp white shirt. Dean's not sure he would have been able to school himself if the evidence of the man's torture were still readily visible to him. He can hardly contain himself now just knowing that it's there.

"Hello, Dean," says Cas stiffly.

"Sup, Cassy?" Dean answers, forcing a smile.

The fed frowns. "What happened to you?"

Dean cocks his head, "Hmm?"

"Your eye. Your mouth. Someone hurt you."

Deans runs a finger carefully along his bloodied bottom lip.

"Ah," he says, "That ain't nothing. Sweet of you to worry, though."

Cas looks skeptical.

"What about you, Cassy? Shouldn't you be snuggled up in a hospital bed with a morphine drip?"

"I'm fine."

Dean raises an eyebrow, "You sure about that?"

"I need information."

"Oh yeah?"

"I want to know everything you know about Tiger Lily's drug ring. Specifically about the people who are employed against their will. People like Andy."

Dean throws his head back and laughs.

"And what makes you think I'd be inclined to tell you any of that? If I even knew?"

Cas grips the cell bars and leans in. "I know you know, Dean," he says, voice, low. "I remember that night. Three years ago. I know you worked for Tiger Lily."

Something cold drops into Dean's stomach as he recalls his time with the Demons. He meets the older man's gaze and stares back hard, struggling to keep his emotions in check.

"You don't know anything," he says quietly, dangerously.

"Then what were you doing there?"

Dean deliberately looks away. He can't get into this now. Can't relive those memories.

"Tell me about Andy," Cas implores, "About Tracy."

Dean leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

"You really wanna know?"

Castiel nods.

"Make it worth my while."

Cas lets out a heavy breath through his nostrils. "What do you want?"

"Oh, the usual. A cheeseburger, freedom, to throw the opening pitch at Yankee's stadium."

"We're not letting you go, Dean."

"But 'yes' to the other stuff, right?"

"Dean," Cas warns.

"Let's just say you'll owe me one."

"I don't owe you anything."

"Oh, really? I shouldn't be here," says Dean, exhaustion allowing his irritation to slip into his voice, "If it weren't for your meddling, I'd have taken out those Demon bastards and been home free."

"My _meddling_? I was kidnapped."

"And rescued. By me. You're welcome by the way," Dean growls, "Is this how you say 'thank you'? I save your life and you turn me in?"

"You're a criminal, Dean. The whole reason I was in that mess is because of you."

Dean opens his mouth to snap back but nothing comes out. The man is right. He's right in the very worst way. Dean is responsible for all of his Angel's suffering. And the blame in Cas's gaze stings far worse than Ruby's knife ever could have. He drops his eyes.

The Fed tilts his head thoughtfully.

"That bothers you," he says. "Doesn't it?"

Dean feels his face heat up, suddenly feeling naked and exposed with how easily Cas is able to read his darkest secret.

"Don't be ridiculous."

"You feel guilty."

"The only thing I feel is pissed off!"

Cas is undaunted by his anger. "You care about what happens to me," he says slowly, piecing it together, "That's why they took me."

"They're idiots."

"And it worked," the Fed continues as if Dean hadn't spoken, "You came."

"I told you, I was tracking Meg."

Cas looks him right in the eye. "You came for me," he practically whispers, a touch of awe in his voice, "But why?"

 _Why me?_

Cas seems to ask that every time he and Dean speak. Could he really not know?

If he actually doesn't, Dean is more than prepared to keep it that way. It's safer for the both of them. He shakes his head, "Do you want to know about Tracy or not?"

Castiel wavers a moment, caught, no doubt, between his desires to know the truth and his determination to do right by Andy.

Finally, he gives in to his better natures. He leans in.

"What do you know?"

* * *

 _6 Hours Earlier_

Cas hunches over on the edge of the ambulance, a shock blanket draped over his shoulders and paramedics buzzing about.

Hannah worriedly fusses over the state of him, "Jesus, Boss. I'm never letting you walk home alone again. What in all hell went down in there?"

Castiel doesn't reply right away. He's too distracted by the sight of the body bag on the gurney being wheeled past. He has no way of knowing whether it's Andy or Meg or any of the four hostiles the mysterious sniper had taken out, but he feels sick to his gut all the same. That poor boy.

"Hell," he says quietly in answer to Hannah's question, "Unadulterated Hell."

He's forcibly taken to the ER but he doesn't stay long. Despite the pain, which had returned full force upon Andy's death, the burns and the knife wound are superficial and he isn't really hurt anywhere else. Physically.

After his discharge, he and Hannah beeline it to the morgue. When the attendant pulls open the drawer and unzips Andy's lifeless, paling corpse, Cas feels an unbridled sense of rage boil up inside of him.

He wants to scream. He wants to throw things. Break things. He wants to tear the cold, clinical, death-filled room apart.

That boy was his responsibility. He should have been able to save him. Should have been paying closer attention.

 _Why_ had this happened? _What_ were they after?

He has to know.

And beyond that, he needs to find this Tracy person. For Andy. It's the very least he can do.

And he knows just where to start.

Of course, to his immense frustration, Cas quickly learns that knowing where you want to start and actually being able to do that can be leagues apart.

Like when you want to interrogate a high-ranking member of a murderous drug-ring and it turns out she's escaped from the hospital. The hospital she was sent to after _you_ nearly choked her to death out of desperation. Or when you want to follow up by talking to her cronies and find them dead in their cells with cyanide capsules between their teeth.

Like the universe is giving you a giant middle finger and obnoxiously singing, " _There's only one person left to talk to..."_

With no other options, and still reeling from recent events, Cas heads over to the precinct against his better judgement and muscles his way to Dean's holding cell.

After some snarky comments and a shocking though inadvertent revelation from Dean about his feelings regarding Castiel, they finally get around to Andy.

"What do you know?"

"He's dead, right? Gallagher?" Dean confirms.

"Yes."

Dean nods slowly, "I'm sorry I wasn't quick enough to stop it."

Castiel frowns, "You...wait. You were the sniper?"

The younger man gives a little half-smile, "Who did you think it was?"

"I-" Cas is at a loss for words.

"Anyway," says Dean, "He was a good guy."

The fed takes a minute to wrap his head around that.

"You knew him?"

Dean shrugs, "I only met him once, years ago. Creepy as fuck abilities, but a chill dude."

"You know about his gift?"

Dean shoots him a side eye. "I'd hardly call it a gift," he says, "But yeah. I know about the drugs. More than you apparently."

"So, it's true," Cas breathes, "The Demon Blood causes...mutations."

"Psychic abilities. Psyabs. That's what they call 'em on the street. I'm surprised you didn't know that."

Cas takes a moment to consider this. After the Tiger Lily disaster, all evidence of his undercover investigation was destroyed. The major players had gone to ground and reports of the strange drug-induced "hallucinations and delusions" had all but ceased. Not entirely. But enough for the higher-ups to shove Tiger Lily and the Demon Blood to the back burner for almost three years now. Cas has been attempting to piece it back together on his own time, but with his caseload ever growing, he can feel it slipping further and further away.

But this information is new. If Dean is to be believed, the Demon Blood "psyabs" are alive and thriving below the FBI's radar. A terrifying notion to say the least.

"The Tiger Lily case more or less fell apart after what happened," Cas confesses.

Dean strangely refuses to meet his eyes. He's quiet for a moment.

"You should reopen it," he tells the wall.

"I'm trying," says Cas, "Tell me about Andy."

Dean draws a deep breath and lets it out painfully slow.

"He was...strong. He was insanely powerful. You've experienced that first hand, I bet."

Cas nods.

"But he also wouldn't let anyone see how much he was hurting. And he was hurting a shit ton. They kept him locked up most of the time, hidden away like their own private nuke. But when they pulled him out...The things they made him do..." Dean breaks off and shakes his head. Cas feels a little sick. He's almost afraid to ask.

"And Tracy?"

Dean chews his lip a moment.

"He loved that girl," he says finally, "More than anything. He'd do anything for her." The younger man's eyes dart toward Castiel for a moment, so quick Cas almost misses it, and then back to the wall, "That was his weakness."

"Love isn't weakness, Dean," Cas feels compelled to argue.

"Tell that to Andy."

"Do you know where the girl is?"

Dean shakes his head. "I never found out. I tried, but...well, you know."

"You've no idea where they might hold a prisoner?"

"Why don't you just ask Ruby? She's about as loyal as a praying mantis. I'm sure for the right deal you can get her to talk."

Cas bites his tongue. Does Dean deserve to know the truth? He's been cooperative so far.

"I can't. She's escaped."

" _Shit_!" Dean shouts, springing to his feet. He spins around and kicks the bench hard enough to make it clang.

"Hey!" One of the desk officers calls out, "Settle down in there!"

"That fucking bitch!"

"Dean-" Cas tries.

"I'll kill her! I'll fucking kill her!"

"Dean!"

"No. She doesn't get to get away. Not again. Not after she-" Dean abruptly cuts off, breathing hard, staring fixedly at Cas's wounded shoulder.

"Not after she what, Dean?" Cas asks quietly.

The man meets Castiel's gaze, eyes wild. Then he blinks, and the transformation is startling.

Dean recovers himself just as quickly as he'd lost it. Suddenly cool, calm, and collected with no trace of anger or any passion at all.

"She's a monster," he says coldly. "She doesn't deserve to live."

"That's not your call."

Dean just snorts and turns away, "Whatever."

Cas stares after him. What the hell had just happened?"

"I don't know where Tracy is," Dean continues casually, "So you might as well find another lead. Or better yet, let it go."

"I can't do that."

"Were you really going to choke her?" Dean asks, suddenly pivoting back to him.

"What?"

"Ruby. Back there. Would you really have killed her?"

"Of course not."

"Yeah," Dean says, "Didn't think so."

"That's not weakness either, you know."

"No," Dean agrees, "You're strong." He finally meets the fed's eyes again and Cas can feel the weight of his words when he says, "You're strong like Andy."

Cas barely suppresses a gasp. For years now he'd been wondering, agonizing over the origins of his strength. Desperate to know if young Dean had seen or felt anything that night that could explain it. When he'd spoken with fourteen year old Dean nearly ten years ago, he'd gotten close when Dean had expressed an inexplicable confidence in him, but maybe now, after all this time, he can finally get some real answers.

"What do you know about that?" He asks.

"They saw you," Dean reminds him, "You're on camera. You'll never be safe from the Demons now. And once your people see those tapes..."

Cas clenches his teeth as a cold sense of dread settles around him.

"What's your point?"

"Cat's out of the bag, Novak. Life as you know it is over. Unless you let me help you."

"I'm not letting you out."

"Why not? You've done it before."

Cas flinches and glances back at the officers who are gazing over curiously.

"That's not true," he hisses.

"Sure it is," says Dean, smiling like a cobra, "Maybe not intentionally...but still."

He reaches one hand through bars, chains rattling.

"All you have to do is take my hand. Let fate do the rest."

Cas doesn't know what will happen if he touches Dean's skin, but he can guess. He remembers the tingling sensation shaking fourteen year old Dean's hand, remembers the interrogation room blackout three years ago when Dean had grabbed him, and most recently the warehouse lamp that had busted open spectacularly when they'd joined hands just hours earlier.

He doesn't understand it, can't rationalize it, but he must believe it.

The tingling in his spine is raging just _thinking_ about _considering_ Dean's offer.

 _"...Just take my hand..."_

He can taste the familiar electricity in the air, the tension building to climax. He can't breathe.

Suddenly, the door bursts open and a frazzled, balding man in an ugly suit stumbles through the door.

Cas feels the energy in the room hitch, then dim and fade away with the lost moment, like a dying flame.

The man riffles through his papers and slips a pair of glasses on, squinting at a file.

"Mr. Winster?"

"Winchester," correct Dean and Cas at the same time.

Dean clears his throat awkwardly, quickly pulling his hand back through the bars, "Who are you?"

"My name is Jeff Crouse. I'm from the public defenders' office," he looks up, "I'm your lawyer."

"Awesome."

Dean and Cas exchange a glance.

"This conversation is not over," says the fed.

"You know where to find me," says Dean, raising his shackled hands.

Cas exits the holding area and walks through the precinct to the parking lot. It's not until he's safely in his car that he finally allows himself to feel the gravity of all he's just learned. Dean hadn't been very helpful on the Tracy front, but he's revealed so much more than Cas had ever expected of him. The Demon Blood. Psyabs. Dean's knowledge of Cas's own curse and understanding of their strange connection. And, perhaps most startlingly, Dean's own guilt at having put Castiel in danger.

Cas has spent months brooding over why Dean had chosen to spare his life two years ago. Now, the picture is becoming a little bit clearer. Or perhaps even more fuzzy, depending on the angle. Surely Dean doesn't actually _care_ about him. No. No, that's ridiculous. Dean must have some other motive, some other vested interest in his well-being or survival. Perhaps he even feels like he owes him since Cas had saved his life so many years ago. But then, Dean had saved _his_ life during the whole Sheridan incident when he was fourteen and then again this morning so that doesn't make any sense either.

Cas lets his head fall against the steering wheel. He's full of so many mixed up feelings he doesn't know what to do or even think. He should be happy. This should count as a victory for him. For everyone on the side of justice. The Grim Reaper is finally behind bars and Cas had been instrumental in putting him there, unintentional as his involvement might have been. But something about it all feels...wrong. This is not how it was supposed to go down.

Dean'd been on the lam for two years since his last arrest, behaving far more cautiously than ever before until this most recent string of vengeance killings. He probably would have gone on like that indefinitely if Cas hadn't been taken. If Dean hadn't taken it upon himself to be a hero. And now the man is facing the death sentence. It's not right.

Cas sighs and leans back in his seat.

He recalls Dean's final plea, " _All you have to do is take my hand. Let fate do the rest._ "

Fate.

Cas thinks about the last time he saw Dean. Thinks about the insane confluence of events that had led to his escape. The blackout. The confusion. The unlikelihood of it all.

And it all started with a touch.

Could the universe really want Dean Winchester to be free? Was there some cosmic influence driving them together? Using him as some sort of catalyst to ensure that every instance where Dean was nearly thwarted in his mission to cleanse the Earth of monsters, he was able to slip through the fingers of justice time and time again?

Was it truly destiny?

Cas shakes his head. He believes in a higher power, a benevolent force guiding humanity, but this is too much.

He and Dean are just coincidence.

Aren't they?


End file.
